Galaxies Apart
by Larbo
Summary: 5 years after the destruction of Yavin IV, our favourite heroes & villains must make new choices in a galaxy where nothing is as it seems, and the line between good and evil is not so clear. Now complete. R&R always appreciated.
1. Prologue

**Galaxies Apart**

**by Laurence Donaghy**

**Prologue**

The severed leg hit the wall of the cantina with a noise to trouble restful sleep. Blaster fire and fluent alien swearing followed suit moments later, followed by a guttural choke of triumph, a spray of blood, and a few surgical _thrummms _of a vibroblade going about its business.

No-one looked up.

Giadi winced into his drink, eyes fixed to the table. He contemplated leaving, despite the sunlight streaming in from the hot morning outside. Days on Ryxx were five galactic standard days long. His fragile body hated every second of the scathing heat thrown down at will by the binary stars.

A nocturnal creature from a cool world far-flung from its native star, Giadi was not exactly in his element. Just thinking about the cold, muddy, murky depths of his homeworld's swamps made his heart ache with longing.

Desperate as he was for his client to show up so he could leave this place as soon as possible, Giadi was glumly aware that fugitives were not overly noted for obsessive punctuality. His eyes swept the bar one more time, in vain. He watched as the leg's former owner hopped over to collect his erstwhile appendage, vibroblade glowing in the dusky interior. His former business partner lay nearby…and on the wall…and a little bit of him by the door.

Giadi was an uncomplicated man. He'd lived his life quietly and illegally here and there, doing odd jobs, evading the double-cross around the corner through his developed sense of becoming prey. Always trying to keep his head below water.

He had it all planned out. He'd get rich, buy an underwater mansion on the night side of a nice geostationary world near the Rim territories. Spend the rest of his nights trying to be the first of his race to father six hundred children by six hundred wives.

He'd probably be dead by fifty.

_Probably_…

"Giadi?"

Restraining the urge to cower under the table, the little alien squeaked an affirmative to the hulking figure towering above him. Despite the size of this fellow Giadi's sharp hearing had picked up no clues to his approach. Only the Noghri and a very few other species had that sort of natural stealth.

_Predator._

What he fervently hoped was his client sat down, dressed from head to toe in a simple brown robe, a cowl covering most of his face. Giadi fingered the blaster in his wrist holster for comfort. "I thought you might have forgotten about me."

"Wanted to make sure you didn't have any friends nearby."

"I work alone. You want to do this or not?"

A package hit him in the chest. He grasped at it, felt it, and ripped it open. He felt his hearts sink. "Twenty-five thousand?"

His client leaned forward. "Look, friend," he said conversationally, "I don't trust you. That's experience talking, believe me. You get the rest when I see it."

"You'll will," the little slicer replied, sliding a data wafer across the greasy table. Giadi took a deep breath. A double-cross was one thing, but pushing your luck a little was another.

It vanished. Giadi heard the _whumm _of a portable reader activating. "What do you want this data for?" he asked, curious despite himself.

"You think the payment should be less, perhaps?" the stranger retorted.

The little Gluyeu shrugged. "None of my business anyway."

The _whumm _died abruptly. A hand shot across the table and yanked Giadi out of his seat, until his eyes were staring into the black depths of the cowl. Giadi's feeble nocturnal eyes were able to see the stranger's face properly for the first time. It was a young man, raven-haired, no more than thirty.

And yet his eyes…Giadi had once worked for a Clone Wars veteran, a man who had seen some intense action. He had eyes like this young man. Eyes that seemed centuries old, burning with the weight of the worlds upon them.

"Give me the access codes. Now."

Giadi let himself go limp. He didn't want to be throttled by this madman. "Insurance works both ways. Payment was fifty thousand. I see the other twenty-five, you get the codes. You know how this goes."

The eyes narrowed.

Giadi swallowed. He'd never seen someone like this before, never encountered such an unreadable personality. What was this stranger capable of? He fairly projected menace, but there was something…

He felt it then. A pressure on his throat. Indefinable, almost gentle, but a pressure nonetheless. Like his throat was being squeezed from a spot somewhere underneath his skin.

The intensity in those terrible eyes dimmed. The pressure lifted. Giadi was placed in his seat, none too gently. He allowed oxygen to trickle into his three lungs again, slinking into the darkest corner of the booth. Only now did he realise that his tiny sidearm blaster had worked itself loose when his client had struck. It lay on the floor of the bar, out of reach.

No. It hadn't worked _itself_ loose at all.

He was dealing with a Jedi.

"Ah," the stranger said softly, "_now_ he understands."

Little wonder his client wanted to skip the usual protocols. "If you truly are a Jedi, look into my mind. See the truth."

"I believe you," said the stranger, after a short pause. "I have the credits with me. Give me the code to the reader's data storage and they're yours. You have my word."

What choice did he have? If this man wanted the other data wafer, he could come and get it and there was nothing Giadi could do about it, except maybe hope that the Jedi was allergic to his blood and contracted a nasty rash.

"Here," he said, and slid another, smaller data wafer across the table.

The Jedi reached inside his robe.

It was at that moment things began to go wrong.

From the door Giadi's sharp ears picked up the sound of shouting and, terrifyingly, the unmistakable report of an Imperial blaster carbine being emptied into flesh. A carcass catapulted into the wall with a sickening _crack_. The bar's denizens, normally unflappable at casual murder, fell silent.

Giadi, trembling, gave in to his species' nature and dove under the table. He crawled as far back as he could, to a position which gave him an unrivalled opportunity to retreat, should the need arise.

"Do I have your attention, Jedi?" an unmistakably Imperial voice penetrated the cantina interior. "You are totally surrounded. Come out peacefully and we'll give serious consideration to sparing the rest of the scum."

The announcement caused further chaos. One of the reasons Jedi were so mistrusted, Giadi reflected, were that they looked outwardly no different from ordinary people. It was precisely this difficulty the bar patrons were presented with now.

_Keep quiet_, he begged the robed figure, _and you might get out of here alive_. If anything happened to him, Giadi would be devastated. The corpse would be robbed of his credits before he could ever get there.

_Snap-hiss_.

Giadi sighed.

Giadi's client stepped boldly from the alcove, lightsaber blazing, into the general crowd, ignoring the vast array of blasters that were suddenly zeroed on his every move. "Does anyone here _really_ think that the Empire will leave the rest of you alone?"

This was considered. A general murmur of discomfort ran through the crowd. "What choice do we have? I saw at least half a legion of stormtroopers out there before the doors closed."

"You're far from helpless," the Jedi countered, "place yourself in the Empire's position - would _you_ want to storm a place like this? The Empire knows you're not just some faceless crowd – half of you have deep ties in the smuggling community. How will they persuade your organisations the whole Jedi thing wasn't just an excuse to wipe you all out at the same time?"

This claim was met with murmured agreement. The most responsive parts of any smuggler's psyche were always their ego and paranoia. The Jedi was drawing on both to great effect.

"If the Jedi," the Imperial officer called at that moment, "does not appear within ninety seconds then this area _will_ be completely destroyed. You have my word on that. Produce the Jedi or die."

Giadi cowered. There was a worrying sincerity about that last statement, an easy confidence bordering on certainty. Any confusion over where this sense of invincibility came from was dispelled seconds later by the noise from above.

"TIE bombers," someone swore. "Five or six of them, directly above us."

"They'll attack no matter what," the Jedi protested desperately. "Think, all of you! Why take half a legion and announce yourself outside, when you could use five men and create an ambush?"

Logic was only going so far. One smuggler shrugged, blaster motioning to the door. "Sorry, kid," he offered, "but I've got a family to support and a Star Destroyer to steal, and being dead won't help much."

The Jedi stepped forward and walked toward the door. Giadi waited for the inevitable to arrive.

"I'm coming out. Call off the bombers," he called, lightsaber still fully extended. Its blue glow illuminated the bar and provided the many trigger fingers within with all the target they could handle.

"When you're in my custody, Jedi," the Imperial retorted.

Giadi watched, fascinated and terrified in equal measure, as the brown-robed figure of calm stopped in his advance. _Uh oh_…he thought, with a prey's instinct for trouble.

A movement attracted his attention. Above the Jedi's head was the skylight, fastened shut with an iron bar, a simple mechanism…and one that was trying its best to work loose.

Giadi pressed himself against the wall.

The bar fell. The skylight opened, and sunlight spilled into the bar. The whine of the bombers was incredibly loud in the sky above. One hundred and fifty eyes were attracted upward.

In that moment, with a crouch and a spring, the Jedi leapt, vanishing in an instant through the hole in the ceiling as blaster fire tracked him all the way, missing by millimetres.

"Get him!" the cry went up. Hands scrambled for the skylight, but it had slammed shut the moment the Jedi passed through, and no amount of pulling could shift it.

On the roof, the Jedi knelt, face staring upward. He heard none of the panicked commotion below.

The crowd hurled the door open. "He's gone!"

At a safe distance, the Imperial commander frowned. He shot a glance at the half-legion of stormtroopers flanking him and the building.

"Destroy it."

The first bomber descended to optimum height. Two pulsing white orbs were released from its underbelly. They fell toward the building below.

On the roof, the Jedi stood.

The Imperial commander, looking through macrobinoculars, cursed under his breath. The Jedi had left it too late-there was no way he could call of the bombing run now.

When the blue lightning shot out he knew something was wrong. Horribly wrong. Two lines of crackling energy connected the Jedi to both bombs. He expected them to explode instantly.

They didn't. Instead they seemed to float, as if on a cushion of air. He simply gaped for a few seconds. He had heard stories of what the Jedi could do. Vader could throttle you from a sector away. The Emperor's rages were the stuff of legend.

He'd never seen anything like this.

The Jedi threw his arms forward. The bombs changed direction, hurtling through the air as the Jedi screamed in pain and rage.

The commander never had time to do the same.

----------

When the dazed and delirious masses at last were able to exit the bar, there was no sign of the Jedi. Giadi managed to scrape together enough shell-shocked witnesses to have some idea of what happened.

He shivered and clutched his credits tightly, more pleased than ever that he hadn't tried to double-cross the young man. His forehead wrinkled slightly as he thought again of the data wafer the Jedi had paid such a ridiculous price for. It had contained cartography files of deep space he'd stolen an age ago…and personal records of a woman. What was her name again?

Organa. That was it. Leia Organa. She had been part of the Rebel Alliance. A traitor. Giadi had hoped that the Alliance could have lasted longer - they made excellent customers, and paid very well, even if they did favour Bothans.

Could the Jedi have been a Rebel? It was possible, if a little unlikely. The Alliance was all but extinct. Perhaps they'd found themselves a Jedi that was willing to put his talents to some use in the same way Vader did for the Empire.

Another commotion began nearby. He began to scamper determinedly the other way. There was something wrong. The crowds around him were staring up at the evening sky and moaning in fear. He risked a quick glance skyward, and squeaked in terror.

A spherical aberration in the skyline chilled him to the spine. Its name passed the lips of the assembled.

The Death Star had come to Ryxx.


	2. Trench Run

**Galaxies Apart**

One 

The TIE fighters filled the heavens behind him. Luke Skywalker, farmboy, saviour, closed his eyes and silently implored his long-dead father to help him. A signal from Artoo told him that his X-Wing was not the target. Wedge was.

"_I'm hit!_" came his new friend's voice, shame and disbelief evident that he should suffer this fate, "_it's not bad._"

Luke glanced at Artoo's scans and told his friend to do what he must have been dreading. "Get clear, Wedge. You can't do any more good back there."

Wedge didn't waste time with arguments. "_Sorry,_" came his voice as his X-Wing pulled out of the trench and to relative safety. Wedge had done his job. He had absorbed the fire meant for Luke, and he had survived. Luke supposed that was a small victory.

It also meant the pursuing TIEs now had just one more X-Wing to disable before they reached a defenceless Luke.

The X-Wing was a wonderful little fighter, but it lacked rear offensive capabilities of any kind – and in this Trench, there was no turning around, no turning back. No time to do either.

Luke's only hope was that Biggs Darklighter, his old friend from Tatooine, was a good enough pilot to keep the TIEs off his back for long enough. This was the point of no return.

His scans showed fire. Biggs' X-Wing frantically used every inch of the limited space available to it to manoeuvre around and out of the fire. Luke watched in delight as Biggs successfully evaded salvo after salvo, sweeping from left to-

_No!_

Too late. Biggs had fallen for it. Pushed by constant fire from one side his X-Wing had backed itself into a corner. Concentrated fire from the central TIE pounded it for a few brief seconds before Rebel craft, Biggs Darklighter included, blossomed into oblivion against the artificial canyon of this monstrous space station.

He restricted himself to a bit lip, a clenched fist. The stinging in his eyes had nothing to do with sweat. Biggs had done his job, too. Right to the end.

He threw his craft into a series of steep and shallow dives and jinks, throwing his X-Wing across the targeting screen of the TIE for all it was worth.

He would _not _be caught.

He would _not…_

_Use the Force, Luke. _

Luke shook his head, impatiently. This was no time for him to become delusional. Around him his X-Wing swerved to the left and right as he tried to jink his way out of trouble, tried every trick he'd ever learned in Beggar's Canyon and beyond to squeeze another few seconds of existence from an unsympathetic Fate.

He strained to peer through the targeting computer, its computer readout counting down the time until his torpedoes could cross the distance from his sturdy little craft into the crucial exhaust port.

_Let go, Luke. _

It _was_ Ben's voice he was hearing. He had thought it had been his grief-stricken imagination that had conjured the old wizard's warning to him only seconds after he had witnessed Ben cut down by Vader on the Death Star. But no.

Ben's voice.

The Force was real, and more powerful than he'd imagined.

He could almost _feel _Ben, looking over his shoulder, looking at him with those old eyes full of terrible knowledge, that kind face full of tension. If he looked behind him now, would see Ben or only the trio of TIEs that were about to blast him to the hereafter?

He could almost begin to understand, to see things differently. The urgency, the terrible edge he had felt biting into him only moments before, he could feel it lose its potency, release its hold of terror upon him.

Ben was telling him to let go…

His eyes flicked to the targeting computer, as, around him, the chaos of the trench seemed to fade into a white noise. He had a decision to make, he knew.

There was only one decision he _could_ make.

_This is for you, Ben, _he thought, and flicked a switch. The targeting computer retracted back into his aft instrument panel, and the trench burst back into life.

"_Luke_," came the tinny echo of Yavin's Base One, "_Luke, you've switched off your targeting computer. What's wrong?_"

He pictured Leia and Threepio down there, one naturally worried, the other a natural worrier. A slight smile ghosted his lips. "Nothing," he assured Base One, "I'm all right."

And Luke flew alone, just as he'd always flown.

The three Imperial ships behind him were nothing more than a few Banthas, with Sand People taking some pot-shots from far below.

The aft portions of his X-Wing disintegrated. Abruptly Artoo's scans and diagnostic screens winked out. "I lost Artoo!" he broadcast in despair. Somehow he'd always thought the little astromech was indestructible. Another myth shattered by the Empire.

_Beep. Beep. Beep. _The signal that the TIE had locked on. With a strange sense of peace, he waited for the lasers to lance out and complete the carnage. A few did, and missed.

One of the TIEs exploded.

Luke checked his screens in disbelief. It was real. One of them had perished. But how?

"_Yee_-_hew_!"

The voice carried into his cockpit. Luke knew that voice, knew it and knew what had happened. Han had come back. The _Millennium Falcon _appeared on his scopes to confirm this a second later. Luke felt the Force surge through him, felt for the first time that he was going to _do _it.

Behind him one TIE spun in panic, hit the other and impacted against the trench wall. The remaining TIE spun harmlessly out into space.

Luke flew, alone, as he'd always flown.

"_You're all clear, kid! Now let's blow this thing and go home!_"

Luke thumbed the controls. Waited until it _felt _right.

Fired.

His torpedoes sped away from him and disappeared into the exhaust port. Direct hits, both. He'd done it. He pulled his X-Wing up and closed the S-Foils, getting the hell out of there.

After a few hundred thousand miles he pulled back and waited. The ignition sequence continued, and he saw the primary firing rings around the maw of the superlaser light up bright green. Tertiary beams shot down the tubes, mere tributaries to the immense well of power that was building up at epicentre.

Nothing happened.

The beams joined, coalesced and reacted with each other in a way only the Empire's best scientists understood. He watched as several beams built in one point, as that point seemed to retract and pulsate once, twice-

Panicked, confused, cheated, impotent, Luke began firing his X-Wing's turbolasers at the immense space station.

Three times-

Now out of his mind with frustration and rage, Luke's fists pounded the cockpit transparisteel.

The superlaser shot across space. It had been fired at the maximum range, so that it took all of took three seconds to reach the fourth moon of Yavin.

To Luke, watching that spear of death arc before him, it felt like an eternity.

Impact.

The moon, an immense ball of rock, shook once and flew apart, just as Alderaan had done. He watched a billion billion pieces of rock burn and race where once a planet had been.

Where once the Rebellion had been.

Where once Leia had-

The new asteroid field expanded at a fantastic rate, one mountain-sized piece barely missing his X-Wing.

The shockwave of Force was much, much worse. Just a few days previously he'd felt nothing but a small discomfort at the demise of Alderaan. Now he screamed in the pain of the death of billions of life forms, one of whom among the many was the white-robed figure he'd travelled the galaxy to save. It built, swelled and-

-he sat up in his bed, gasping.

Every night the same dream. Every sleep for three years, reminding him he was the galaxy's biggest mistake. How he had failed to bring down the Death Star in time. How he had been responsible for the destruction for the Rebellion, the hopes of all those under the Imperial thumb.

Reaching for the ampoule of TranqSleep beside the bed and giving himself a double-strength dose, Luke could only hope that his sleep would be dreamless, that when he next woke up his hands would not be covered in blood only his mind could see.

No. It was just as before.

Always just as before.

Obi-wan Kenobi. Yavin IV…Use the Force, Luke…


	3. Mission to Dagobah

**Galaxies Apart**

**Two**

The Imperial Palace on Coruscant. Centre of the civilised galaxy. Administrative and spiritual headquarters of the Galactic Empire. One of the few buildings above respectable above-surface height on the ecumenopolis that no-one could remember being built. It was, by any definition, old.

As was its most famous occupant.

Mara Jade stepped forward, on cue. "Master," she said, inclining her head.

The Emperor's eyes, yellow ancient orbs bloodshot through with malice, fixed on her. "Mara."

It was time for her to give her latest briefing on the state of affairs inside Imperial space. Mara Jade, the woman raised from early childhood by those close to the Emperor, the one groomed to be his personal assistant and 'utility'. His tool across the galaxy. The Emperor's Hand.

She was devoted to him totally, knowing he knew her every move, thought and deed. This was only life she had ever known, and the only life she could ever imagine wanting.

Unaware that her life was about to unravel, Mara Jade revelled in her position of power.

"Barkhesh is a miserable little world, my Lord."

The Emperor cackled. He enjoyed her sense of humour, which was as lethally sharp as her personality. "What of my concerns?"

"The local governor had been auctioning off AT-STs to local smuggler cells."

"I presume he is no longer an issue?"

"I saw fit to rid the Empire of such scum. His second in command shall assume his responsibilities."

"His reward for coming to us," the Emperor said. "Excellent work, Mara." She fairly glowed with pride.

A moment passed without comment from either party. She knew better than to question such indulgences. Her eyes wandered to the exotic carcasses adorning the walls. The Rancor suspended from the ceiling seemed especially astonished at this turn of events.

"Master…" she began.

"You want to know why it was that I summoned you here, when I could simply have briefed you through the Force at any time. I admire your directness, Mara. A few of my generals would have engaged in idle conversation for hours about the size of my Rancor. Never mind. They are fewer now," and he smiled terribly, his eyes gleaming.

She was subjected to his most intent scrutiny for another moment before he proceeded.

"Do you recall…the Rebellion, Mara?"

"Of course, my Lord. An uninspired revolution, led by no-hopers and miscreants, nicely did away with."

That produced no smile. "Yes," the Emperor said neutrally. "Died stillborn, perished in the glorious victory that was the Battle of Yavin."

He actually shifted in his chair. She was slightly taken aback. The Emperor _never _fidgeted. Whatever was worrying him obviously did not fit in with the visions of the future he experienced so frequently.

"What if I were to tell you…that was not the way things originally happened?"

She creased her brow, trying to wrap her considerable intellect around that strange statement. "I…I don't fully understand what you mean by that, my Lord," she confessed. "It sounds-"

"Ridiculous?"

"Yes, my Lord."

The Emperor turned up the intensity of his stare a little. "You're right, of course. Nonetheless, however…" he sighed, "…it happens to be true. And it complicates matters, Mara. It complicates them immeasurably."

She struggled to fit this logic inside her preconceptions of Jedi lore. "Master?" she said, lost.

He leaned forward, and the weight of this knowledge seemed to stoop him. This truth was, of course, to be diluted for her benefit, but it was still much more information than he was comfortable revealing.

"A device was discovered, hidden deep in the bowels of the Death Star. We managed to reactivate it."

"A weapon?"

"On the contrary. When fitted to the Star Destroyer _Jurisdiction _the device had no effect on several target vessels. Only by accident was the true nature of the artefact discovered. When the dummy ships had to be destroyed, the _Jurisdiction_ fired several proton shots. All trace of the experiment had to be erased; I did not want my Navy's commanders to know about it."

He sat back again. She had never seen him this agitated. "Nothing happened. Neither torpedo detonated. Assuming some sort of fault in the firing mechanism or the torpedoes themselves, two further salvoes were launched. No detonations. In all the _Jurisdiction _fired twelve defective torpedoes."

"Perhaps the computer systems-"

"No, no," he dismissed the possibility offhand. "A further two Star Destroyers arrived at the scene an hour later. All of their torpedoes failed also. Afterward the targets were towed to another sector of space and the experiment repeated. Same result. Finally the _Jurisdiction_, device onboard, jumped to lightspeed andretreated to a distance of two light-years. The torpedoes detonated first time, every time."

"A proton inhibitor?" she said, doubtfully.

"Just as an Interdictor Cruiser prevents hyperspace travel within a certain area of space so this device prevented proton detonation. Quite a useful device to have had onboard the Death Star…"

Jade felt she was missing something. "I don't understand..."

"Mara," the Emperor hissed, "the entire attack plan of the Rebel Alliance that day at Yavin was based around the premise of a few Rebel snubfighters – X-Wings – getting close enough to release a torpedo into a vital thermal exhaust port."

He was building himself into a rage now. She could feel it in the air, like a static charge, an almost greasy feel to her surroundings. "One of the X-Wings got off two torpedoes before we could stop it.It would have _worked_, Mara! Without this device present the chain reaction would have destroyed the entire station."

She began to comprehend. Proton detonation was one of the most stable reactions in the scientific spectrum, exactly why it had been chosen as the explosive for torpedoes.

"The technology for such an inhibitor must be advanced beyond the Empire's capabilities. Surely it's not impossible though, my Lord, that such technology existed three years ago, perhaps in a remote area of the galaxy?"

"Further examination of the artefact revealed more of its origins. Buried within its subroutines were build codes from something called the _New_ Republic. The codes were dated as twenty-nine _years_ from now."

"Time travel?" Mara repeated, the words leaving a sour taste in her pragmatic outlook. "I have read the theories on wormholes…no more than idle Old Republic speculation."

"Nonetheless," Palpatine swept away her protests, "who can say what wondrous scientific advances our descendants will make before thirty years have passed in the galaxy? What wonders these discoveries will unlock? This device has changed the face of history. Consider a scenario where the Rebel Alliance emerged victorious at Yavin IV. A history of our glorious Death Star as no more than a grim memory of humiliation."

"The entire galaxy would have changed."

"Much as it may suit the Empire," Palpatine went on, "this act has interfered greatly with the Force."

She felt it from him then; for just a second, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability that shocked her and destabilised her.

"I have lost all ability to see into the future," he confessed. "I can no longer sense danger for myself."

"Have you discussed this with Vader?"

"The lord Vader is a powerful Jedi. He too feels the disturbance in the Force. I have told him nothing of the device and what it means as yet, for the advantage it gives me over him."

"My Lord," Mara inclined her head again, honoured at the confidence placed in her by her Master.

He ignored her. "You wonder what this specifically has to do with you," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Do you have a task for me?"

"This has repercussions for the entire galaxy. Someone must have brought this device back through the years from the future. I want to know if that person, or persons, is alive."

"You wish me to seek him out?" Mara frowned; it wasn't exactly her usual mission.

"No. Vader's pet Noghri can assist me in that direction," he assured her. "For you I have a grander assignment. These days the Jedi are so few and far between that in times like this, with the Force in crisis, I find myself rather at a loss for advisement and experience. Mara Jade, your task is to seek out a Jedi Master named Yoda and bring him to me, alive. Be warned-he is a powerful Jedi and you would be wise not to engage him in combat. You are authorised to tell him everything I have told you. I suspect it will only confirm his own feelings."

He reached to the sides of the Throne and grasped a small cylinder. She pulled it easily from his outstretched palm and guided it to herself using the Force. "Data on Yoda, and the co-ordinates of his homeworld."

"What if he refuses to co-operate?"

"The fact that I did not send fifty legions of stormtroopers to lay waste to his stinking swamp of a hideaway should buy me a little credit. Perhaps, however," Palpatine mused with a slight smile, "if he does indeed insist on staying put, I will be forced to pay him a small visit, in person."

Mara had been to worlds where rival Jedi Masters had paid each other 'small visits' thousands of years beforehand. The memory sent a chill down her spine as she left to disembark for Dagobah, and for Yoda.


	4. Return of the Jedi

**Galaxies Apart**

**Three**

Darth Vader, Dark Lord of the Sith, the galaxy's most feared warrior, had finally discovered an enemy against whom there was no defence.

Boredom.

He fought back derision as he scanned through the reports of the destruction of the Rebel base on Hoth. The icy world had proved no haven for the ragtag bunch that had settled there. Just four prisoners had been taken, and none had survived interrogation.

His quarters on the Super Star Destroyer _Executor _were littered with similar reports. Only occasionally were there even enough Rebels to put up a fight worth noting. These days the _Executor _served mostly as a reminder to lazy worlds that the word 'rebel' sounded a lot like the word 'rubble' in the ears of the Empire.

Even the job of feared symbol of authority had been usurped these days by the Death Star. Thinking of that soulless battle moon, that stately sphere of invincibility which murdered _en masse _at the whim of his Master, did not improve his mood. They hadn't even bothered to name the abomination beyond the Death Star.

The Emperor would indeed be naming the next incarnation, practically complete on Sluis Van. The Death Star _Palpatine_, he mused. How spectacularly imaginative. He supposed that if a third were ever built – it hurt to even consider such a possibility – would be given his name.

The Death Star symbolised everything he had come to despise. The rumblings were growing, he knew, that as a tactical commander he was obsolete. Mortality rates around those who worked around him guaranteed that those unfortunate enough to land the honour had usually been manipulated into that position by their more capable peers.

What that meant was that those bottom of the class were the surprised individuals who found themselves (briefly, in most cases) thrust into the centre seat of the most powerful warship in the Empire.

Now that they were not in a time of war, the Empire's personnel were not expendable resources any longer; they were _investments_. The supremacy of the Empire was all but absolute. If reports of the demise of minor Alliance cells halfway across space carried out with no fuss and minimal risk failed to inspire _him_, Commander In Chief of the Empire's combined military forces…

Today the Emperor crippled half of the Empire's worlds with taxes to fund his armies and build his Fleet. How long would that continue, in the face of total victory?

How long before the Empire became as complacent and as relaxed as its predecessor had been?

Vader longed for nothing more than the opportunity to engage himself in a genuine challenge. He didn't trust peace. He'd never felt at home within it.

A message interrupted his thoughts.

"Lord Vader," the hologram said in solemn greeting. Vader recognised the figure in the armoured suit.

"What is it, Fett?" these days, even his ominous sarcasm sounded bored.

Fett's helmet hid his expression behind four inches of Mandalorian composite, the strongest material the galaxy knew. "I have information you may be interested in, Lord."

"The Empire no longer gives payment to your kind."

Fett waved a hand. "No payment is required. Call it a goodwill gesture. I received it from a reliable source only yesterday."

"Transmit the information. I will judge its usefulness for myself."

The transmission ended. Vader dimly felt his fist smash something to his right. He detested scum like Fett, but particularly Fett himself, who was unfortunately blessed with guile and intelligence. His 'gift' was, as usual, very well timed; the Emperor had made it known that with the Alliance destroyed, and presumably for lack of better targets, the Imperial Fleet would begin to target all smuggling activity.

His personal holo-display surged into life. Vader felt his interest ebb when he saw it was a shaky holo-recording, probably taken by a tourist. The information string at the bottom informed him this world was called Ryxx (which meant nothing to him), and that the date was three days previously.

The cam swung back, and Imperial soldiers jerked into view. Quite a lot of them, and apparently not on a drill. Interesting. Almost half a legion, if his estimates were correct. They seemed to be engaged in a flanking manoeuvre around a small, squat building – a cantina, much like those on Mos Eisley. The cam moved to zoom in on the local commander. There was no sound.

The picture changed again. The cam tilted upwards, showing five TIE bombers circling the area. Any military operation these days that required this many troops and air support piqued his interest. The cam remained in that position as one of the bombers dived and fired two charges. The shaking tourist endeavoured to follow each all of the way down.

And it suddenly became an interesting day.

When the recording had finished, he played it again. And again. And again. Finally convinced of what he was seeing, he contacted Admiral Piett and bade him to lay in a new course. The _Executor _jumped to hyperspace, heading for Ryxx.

Staring at the mottled chaos of the faster-than-light wormhole outside, Vader steepled his fingers and wondered why he, Commander in Chief, had been told nothing of this incident by his Admirals…or by the Emperor.


	5. Counterparts & Regrets

**Galaxies Apart**

**Four**

_Bzzt. _

"…well, _really. _I mean, there was _no _need for that sort of over-reaction, was there? Honestly, he's _quite_ temperamental…"

Artoo bleeped to himself in exasperation. His welding tool continued its patient traversing across the latest wounds to his counterpart's golden metallic plating, already criss-crossed with thin scars.

Threepio carried on, mostly to himself. "…when he gets like _that_ there's simply no reasoning with him, is there? I _told _him only yesterday that his 'revolutionary' holochess strategy simply could not prevail"

Artoo warbled pointedly.

Threepio huffed. "Yes, well I don't call pulling your opponent's arms off a very revolutionary strategy, no matter if he succeeded in doing it or not. And then to claim a victory, by _default_…!"

Artoo's welder completed its journey across Threepio's shoulder. The smaller astromech model gave a small, relieved _bleep _of satisfaction, and began to roll away. "Hey!" Threepio called after it. "Don't you leave me here to rot, Artoo Detoo, with an animal like Chewbacca loose on this flying deathtrap!"

Artoo paused to get off a parting shot, before motoring merrily on to his repairs on the hyperdrive. Almost everything on the _Falcon _these days was in a state of disrepair. The ship had never had what you would call a 'professional' servicing under its current captain, and so Artoo was in constant demand on one emergency job or another.

For his part, the little droid was quite happy with this arrangement. Sadly his humanoid counterpart was less so. Then again, Threepio would have needed a long run up to be depressed.

Han had never liked Threepio. For that matter 'Goldenrod' had taken an instant dislike to the smuggler from the fateful moment when the two met three years ago. Strange that now Artoo remained still on the _Falcon_.

Threepio, of course, wasn't the same droid who Artoo had known for so many years. That particular model had perished along with the rest in the superlaser blast that had eradicated Yavin IV. No, this was the second incarnation of C-3PO, formed using a 'blank' assembly model and Artoo's counterpart chip.

Not many humans knew that an integral function of the counterpart arrangement was to keep a chip containing the sum memories and accumulated algorithms of the partner, updated every twelve hours by proximity signals.

Solo had known. Even at that, he had been under no obligation to re-create C-3PO. He'd done so anyway, for reasons best known to himself. So the squat little robot worked as hard as he could for the enigmatic rascal, even if sometimes he _was _a little short-fused.

Artoo never paused to wonder if Han had thought about the counterpart arrangement. Didn't wonder if Han hadn't lain awake for more nights than he could remember turning the universe over in his mind, wondering why artificial life should have the capacity, the ability to continue in some shape or form while organic life, so fragile and precious, perished in the blink of a laserbeam.

Leia had had no counterpart.

---------------------------------------------------------

Han's pilot seat had evolved a series of bumps and rises over the years, which exactly matched the contours of his back. He had always been able to tell his mood from how well the seat fitted.

Right now, he was shifting irritably.

"Chewie?"

The Wookiee in the co-pilot's chair didn't respond. Han glanced over and saw why.

"_Chewie!_"

The two-metre frame of his friend and partner jerked into consciousness. Chewie growled softly and rubbed his head, eyes nailing Han to the cockpit wall.

Even in the timelessness of deep space, Wookiees were not 'morning' people.

"Did you tear one of Goldenrod's arms off, again?"

Chewie shrugged, suggesting that the incident had not been ranked highly on his list of priorities. Han sighed softly. "Try not to let him get under your skin so much, will ya? A few more games of chess and all he'll be good for is attaching to the dorsal array as a mascot."

That earned him a glance from the Wookiee which spoke volumes. "OK, so he annoys me too," Han admitted readily, "_boy_, does he annoy me," he added quietly, "but…well, it's like he's…"

Chewie nodded and growled softly, closing the subject in his own way.

What Han had been reluctant to say was that Threepio was the only real link Han had back to _her_.

Han's mind began to drift back a few years, to the rather unceremonious farewell with Luke that had ended with Artoo being presented to him.

Han had felt more sorry for the droid that day, with its mournful whistle, than for the sullen farmboy who'd completely changed since the last time they'd spoken.

_Whose fault was that, Han?_

He flinched. He had aged over the last five years - it was a long time to be on the run from the biggest gangster this side of the Core. Jabba, incredibly, had raised the bounty on Han's head _eleven times _since the original incident.

He was now worth the astronomical sum of one hundred and seventy-seven thousand credits. There were some days he felt like bringing _himself _in.

He was, in effect, a virtual prisoner inside the _Falcon_. There were very few characters out there who would be immune to the lure of a bounty like that.

Five years ago Han Solo would have turned in several of his closest friends for that sort of money, wrapped up in a bow. Well? He had been a smuggler, not a charity worker.

He hadn't grown up wanting to be a smuggler. He'd had his heart set on becoming the man at the helm of one of those _huge _ships - the Calamarian star cruisers, or even a Star Destroyer.

As an Imperial cadet, Han had set his sights high. On his room wall in the functional barracks he'd affixed a beautiful holo of the ultimate challenge. The Super Star Destroyer _Executor_, not long out of the yards and the largest warship ever built. In his dreams he'd flown her countless times.

He'd never even been all that interested in space battle. To him piloting in a dogfight meant you'd already failed; he'd always thought that a top-notch pilot should be able to steer his way out of trouble. He was a brash flyer, but not exactly battle-eager.

When he'd chosen the _Falcon _from the small fleet of ships Lando had possessed for his prize, it was certainly not for her beauty. The _Falcon _was the starship equivalent of a pregnant Hutt; no matter how you dressed it up it was still one ugly mother.

He'd chosen it because one experienced glance from those would-be pilot's eyes had told him that this thing was _fast. _Han had been deducted marks while in training after, in a simulation program, he'd flown his TIE Interceptor at top speed the entire time. He'd also set a record time for successful completion that day.

Ironically, the program had been set inside a huge canyon, a mission to protect TIE Bombers until they reached the targets at the mouth of the crevasse. Exactly what the Alliance had done at the Death Star.

He cursed himself, of course, for stalling that day. Had he turned back a few minutes sooner…Leia might still be alive, the Death Star wouldn't have gone on to obliterate Yavin IV and the five other worlds it had murdered since.

Yet it had all seemed so perfect.

The station's defences in complete chaos with the fate of a quarter of a million people hanging in the balance, he'd been able to coast in with nothing more to deal with than a few gun turrets.

He'd spotted the TIEs and the X-Wings right away. Communication was not an option - the last thing he wanted was to alert the Imperial grid and possibly startle Luke into making a fatal mistake.

His heart had sank as one of the X-Wings had blown, but _something _had told him that it wasn't Luke's. The automatic targeting on the _Falcon's _turbolasers would have taken six seconds to lock on. Han knew his young friend wouldn't have that long. He'd brought the _Falcon _down at a steep angle and switched the guns to remote manual operation.

Then he'd fired for all he was worth. When one had blown, from luck or judgement, he hadn't been able to contain his joy. The other two became tangled and Luke was clear. Han had told him as much.

And Luke, the farmboy romantic from a backwater planet recently turned space adventurer…had missed.

He had _missed_.

Han shivered. The memory was far too fresh, even now. Afterward, Skywalker had sworn that both torpedoes had entered the exhaust port.

Well…he would have, wouldn't he?

Han knew full well that had they done so he wouldn't be sitting here thinking about apologising to Goldenrod right now. He would have been-

The voice in his head was silent.

The _Falcon _flew on.

Unknown to those on board, the Force was far from finished with them yet.


	6. Losing Control Gaining Opportunity

**Galaxies Apart**

**Five**

The glare of the red giant star, nameless and worthless, illuminated Luke Skywalker's face through the transparisteel viewing window of the Corellian Corvette _Privateer_. He watched as a tiny starfighter spiralled into the immensely vast crimson tapestry, watched as it began to burn with a pathetic wet flame long before it had even reached the inner layers of the crushing gravity well.

It was his X-Wing. His last link to the past, and it had just completed its last, automated course.

_Good riddance._

Luke turned away. Around him his modified Corvette _thrummed _with power, far more than his old Alliance snubfighter had ever contained. Luke felt comforted by the power around him. He found himself attracted more and more to it - the reason why he'd taken this ship as payment for services rendered to the sort of employer he never would have dreamed of working for, once upon a time.

The Rebellion was dead. Luke Skywalker was not, and the Galactic Empire was going to know about it.

One way or another, he would have revenge.

"Hyperspace," he commanded.

The Corvette seemed to contract for the briefest of moments. Behind him the anonymous red giant, complete with its extra mass of metal and bad memories, vanished into the mottled chaos of the hyperspace tunnel.

Luke wondered how he had ever done without voice control. It left him with so much time to perform more important tasks…

"ETA," he inquired, though the answer was never in doubt.

"Estimated Time of Arrival: Three point four hours," the computer's dulcet tones informed him.

He nodded in satisfaction. Time enough to eat and sleep. An hour of rest would be a welcome luxury. First, though…

"Computer: Commence Training Program Five. Seeker balls set to 200 of normal strength."

The windows in the viewing lounge slid shut. Some said the fluidity of the hyperspace conduit could drive deep space travellers mad if they stared at it for too long.

Luke knew that looking inward could drive someone mad a lot faster.

With the windows shut, the lounge was now in complete darkness. Luke felt comfortable in the shadows. He _became _them. His mind relaxed, and he recalled the Force techniques he'd acquired over the past few years. "Begin," he said.

A soft _whirr _signalled the opening of the panel on the opposite wall. The five seeker balls - advanced models, all of them - hovered noiselessly into a room unhindered by furniture. He could not sense them directly through the Force; they were without that telltale spark which illuminated life.

That didn't mean he couldn't use the Force to his advantage. He reached down-

_Snap-hiss._

The darkness receded a little, fearing the blade. Luke's eyes were silhouettes in the light.

The seeker balls took this as their activation signal. Instantly they split, flying at full velocity to all corners of the room, each in constant communication with the others.

Luke had not yet moved.

Seeker balls, particularly top-of-the-range models like these, were programmed to emit high-pitched beeps when beginning and ending the training session. Within a few days of tinkering Luke had ripped this facility from the main board, along with the safeguarding programs which told the seekers when their operator was defenceless. For all intents, he was engaging them in a battle to the death.

A flash of movement, a blaster bolt _zipping _past his left ear, and it had begun.

For twenty minutes Luke battled. The seekers, faster and more manoeuvrable than any non-Jedi biological opponent could ever hope to become, fired relentlessly, peppering the training area with blaster bolts.

Luke, as was his custom, spent the first ten minutes simply hurling himself from floor to wall to ceiling, curling and twisting his body around the lasers, anticipating their next formation and attack plan. Only a close affinity to the Force was what enabled him to plot an impossible course under the hail of fire; any sort of distractions would have ruined his concentration.

None did.

When he judged the physical workout to be over, Luke's defensive posture adjusted in seconds. Where previously the sabre had been used only to deflect bolts he could never dodge in time, now he wielded it with purpose and precision.

Luke had discovered over the past couple of years that using the Force for attack opened up some amazing possibilities; he was surprised Ben had never mentioned the huge power contained there.

Not a movement of his body was put to waste when he was in this state. Leaping five metres vertically, Luke descended with sabre blade flashing, decapitating two of the seekers before they had time to engage their evasion protocols. Their cauterised remains fell uselessly to the deck below.

Luke himself, however, landed with much more control, bending his knees and rolling away bare seconds before a counterstrike from the remaining seekers strafed his former position.

Abandoning stealth, the seekers drove straight for him, spitting laser fire. With a mental shrug Luke pitched into a flat-out sprint, yelling with the adrenaline rush as he faced them head-on. Many of their shots simply went wide; those that did not were effortlessly pushed away.

At the right moment he _leapt_.

Luke's blade flashed once, twice. Two tiny explosions heralded a double strike. Cancelling a third swipe at the last moment on a whim, he instead deactivated the blade and threw out an arm, grabbed.

The last little seeker writhed in his hand, servo motors screaming, trying with all its might to turn itself around so that it could bring its forward-facing firing port and empty its laser into this insolent target.

His eyes bulged as he looked closer. This close up, the spherical seeker ball's tiny channels and grooves were plainly visible. It looked like a miniature-

_Crrrccck_.

He stared down at his hands in shock. The seeker, crushed beyond repair, died.

The _Privateer _had extensive medical facilities and a resident Too-Onebee droid he'd salvaged from a ruined Star Cruiser a few months back. His right hand, bloodied and scalded from the strain of crushing hot metal, would be healed in time. As he strode out of the gallery and into the corridors of the desolate vessel, his thoughts were grim.

Could he really have lost control so completely?

Again?

---------------------------------------------------------

If, the philosopher decided, you had the power to draw a map of the universe the Empire would show up, immeasurably tiny but _there_. It was, he reflected, a fantastic achievement. Some he knew would have dealt in generations when talking about the scale of Empire's triumph. He thought this typical of the arrogance of Imperial officers. A generation, of course, was measured and set in human years. What else?

It had been one thousand, three hundred and eighty four generations since the Empire had been created from the dead ash of the Old Republic. In the multi-faceted eyes of the Sullustan _btyti_, at least. Similarly not even one eighth of a reproductive cycle had passed for the gigantic _renfar _trees on the jungle world of Elyt.

Even the supposed galactic guardians, the exalted Jedi Knights, had revered in their little motto of 'protectors of peace and justice in the galaxy for a thousand generations'. To the _btyti _this would have amounted to the grand total of around thirty years.

No one was going to give humans any prizes for being modest. After all, the philosopher relented, they had a lot to be proud of. Humans had-somehow-managed long ago to seed their number on countless worlds, making them by far the dominant species in this galaxy. The process had gone back so far that, he knew, the name and location of their homeworld was a complete mystery. The first recorded Galactic Trade Pacts had been signed by humans with humans.

Human art, now. It was…frequent. It seemed the best term to use. He studied the rows of holograms with a cultured eye. Everyone knew he was a bit of an art fan. To his peers in the Imperial Navy this brought him in line for more distaste. He couldn't have cared less.

Only one opinion, in his current position, mattered in the end and thus far the Emperor had no cause for complaint. In fact he rather suspected the Emperor was beginning to find his recommendations for internal reform compelling; he'd been to more top-level functions lately than he could comfortably handle.

Vader had been there, of course. Anything else would have been bad protocol. It was fair - and also a major understatement - to say that Vader didn't like him. This in itself did not make him feel overly concerned. The numbers of high-ranking Imperials in Vader's good graces was small already.

There was a rift developing. Frankly the Imperial hierarchy was sick of Darth Vader's random homicide of promising young officers for the most trivial of mistakes. Evil for evil's sake had yet to win a space battle, in his experience.

Had Vader not been the most powerful Dark Jedi in the galaxy he would have been long, long dead. Six attempts had been made on Vader's life within the last two years alone. From _inside_ the Empire.

With some reluctance he shut down the art program and activated a map of the sector his battle fleet was in. The Rim territories were sparsely populated and barely worth conquering, truth be told. His posting to the very reaches of Imperial space was no doubt a result of his 'alien' heritage and his unsettling views.

Still, he'd settled down well. The last eighteen months had seen forty-two combat encounters and a grand total of forty-two victories. He'd taken nine star systems and lost nothing larger than an AT-AT in the process; something of an Imperial record.

The chatter across Imperial channels seemed a little more frenetic than normal. The grapevine had been likewise fruitful of late. He'd heard rumours of a big mission, something huge and sanctioned by the Emperor himself. He itched to be back at the Core, in the thick of the action.

"Grand Admiral?"

Another man would have exploded at the interruption. He pitied the Lieutenant who tried it with Vader.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"There's a Priority signal for you, sir. You _did _say that if any messages came through that I should-"

"Yes, of course. Patch it through."

"Right away, sir," the Lieutenant replied, relieved. "Patching it through now, sir."

His holo grid burst into life.

"Grand Admiral Thrawn," the Emperor said. "I have a task for you."


	7. Commence Primary Ignition

**Galaxies Apart**

**Six**

"Commence primary ignition."

Tarkin felt the floor beneath his feet begin to shake, ever so slightly, as the raw power of the Death Star's superlaser began to charge. Right now entire teams of engineers were supervising the coagulation of turbolasers in over one hundred tertiary chambers. Once successfully merged these huge veins of light would be released simultaneously. The next stage saw the hundred beams re-form again into just six, which finally were blasted into a single spot, targeted and fired.

The beauty of this system was that the Death Star could vary the power it used. While the Full Intensity beam was usually required for the destruction of worlds, one of the six Final Stage beams would more than suffice to take care of a Star Cruiser.

His pet moon was much more than a showpiece of terror; it was the jewel in the crown of the Imperial Navy, surpassing the much-vaunted _Executor _as the most feared vessel in the galaxy.

Tarkin's cold eyes surveyed the readouts before him, as the shudder in the deck grew more persistent. He began whispering a countdown to himself. The Death Star had fired just seven times in the last three years at full intensity, and he had made sure that he supervised each blast.

A few months ago, when word had broken that the construction of a new Death Star had begun, the Emperor had contacted him and offered him promotion and transfer to oversee the construction process. He had stared into those terrible eyes and firmly refused.

"Stand by," one of his chief technicians said, as the readouts reached optimum levels. "Stand by…"

Tarkin kept his balance with bored ease as the deck gave one final sympathy heave, then _released. _He watched the immense laser scythe across space, as if his eyes were the thrust behind the charge.

Impact.

He sighed in satisfaction as the planet came apart. The shockwave, a huge ripple of force, arced out and flicked an angry tendril at the Death Star. It was nothing the station's shields couldn't cope with.

Tarkin cast a glance back at the rows of technicians. "Well done, gentlemen. That makes eight out of eight, I believe. Let's see the _Palpatine _try to match _that _precedent, eh?"

There was a short burst of polite laughter from the amassed scientists. Tarkin turned away, smiling. His grin faded a little as he remembered the nature of this mission. Oh, well. Total victory was bound to bring this sort of thing along with it, sooner or later.

Using the Death Star as a mining tool…it just didn't seem right. Financially it was invaluable; the remains of the carefully-selected moon the Death Star had just broken up would be rich in all sorts of rare minerals, now much easier for Imperial mining ships to get at. For the price of one superlaser blast the Empire's credit-counters had estimated a net gain of twenty-eight million credits.

Economics. The word left a bitter taste in his mouth. There were times when Tarkin harked back for the days when the future was uncertain and the threat of the Alliance lurked around every corner.

Like that business at the Battle of Yavin, for instance. When the Alliance's attack had paralysed him with fear for the briefest of instants. For one moment, he'd been certain that he was going to die that day. It hadn't happened.

And now…what was this of a device the Emperor's personal guards had discovered on his Death Star? His sources at the Imperial Court were raving about the effect it had on the Emperor; apparently he'd spoken to no-one but his closest advisors and scientists for the last few weeks.

Certainly there had been no communication between Palpatine and Vader for quite some time now. Tarkin fanned the fires like everyone else in the Imperial Navy. Vader had to go. He wasn't needed anymore. Retire him off with a nice quiet fleet somewhere, just like…

…just like Palpatine had done with Thrawn. Tarkin's pale complexion flushed slightly at the name. _There _was a dangerous man, now. Like all of his peers in the hierarchy, Tarkin fancied his chances of one day taking the centre seat.

The way he saw it, the man they all had to watch was the alien with the glowing red eyes who had the audacity to wear the white uniform of a Grand Admiral. Never before had Tarkin, in his considerable years of military service, seen a man who _exuded _leadership quite like Thrawn did.

His performance in battles as a tactician was, quite simply, unreal. Palpatine had gone so far as to have the man thoroughly checked for Force talent, so uncanny was his knack for totally foxing an opponent.

"Sir…" a tremulous voice interrupted his musings. Tarkin broke from his thoughts with something approaching relief.

"Yes? What is it?"

The young lieutenant gestured to his panel. "The _Executor _has just dropped out of hyperspace two million kilometres aft, sir. I've just been hailed by them, to inform you…" he hesitated.

"Yes?" Tarkin prompted, slightly irritated at the youth's nervousness.

"…Lord Vader wants to speak with you, sir. He-he wants you to report to the _Executor_ now, sir."

"Very well," Tarkin nodded calmly. "Please inform the Lord Vader that I will have a shuttle ferry me across at the earliest available opportunity. In future, please tell him to submit proper notice."

The young man almost choked. "Yes, sir. He's...he's, ah, he's already sent a shuttle for you. It's approaching us now."

"Give it clearance, then!" Tarkin snapped, walking from his vantage point in the control room's upper deck and descending the flight of steps. "Tell him, then, that I will take _his _shuttle across _now_."

Vader was skating on perilously thin ice here. No-one treated a Grand Moff like this, not even the Commander in Chief.

Tarkin entered the lift and clipped his destination to the waiting stormtrooper, lips set and thoughts darkened. _Vader had better have a damned good reason for this_…

---------------------------------------------------------

Dagobah was, in Luke's expert estimation, a dirtball.

He wondered if the planet contained any rock, or whether, as its appearance from orbit seemed to indicate, it was composed of multiple layers of goo and mud. He had been expecting…what?

A city world, he supposed, with glistening white towers of perfection and a stately population gliding around green parks in around seven layers of robe. Just about as far from Tatooine as you could get; the bright centre of the universe.

He whistled softly as the life form readings sprang up.

"There's _something _alive down there…" he said. Saying it sent an inexplicable shiver down his spine. Were Jedi especially prone to bouts of déjà vu? He wished he knew.

Dagobah was a large world, too, and one which did not exactly feature handy hundred-foot clearings in which to land the _Privateer. _A scan of the planet in that kind of detail would take about three days to complete.

Patience had never been one of Luke's virtues.

He started the descent protocols, deciding to trust to the Force to guide him to a suitable spot. If not, he could always zap the nearby foliage with a few quick bursts of turbolaser fire and make himself a landing spot.

The _Privateer _swooped gracefully into the upper atmosphere, barely raising a spark across the nose. Visibility was literally zero outside. He was thankful that he _wasn't _in his X-Wing; the snubfighter had no atmospheric sensors to speak of, certainly of the quality he'd need to land on this world. _Privateer's _ sonar systems made sure he avoided the major storms on his way down into the lower atmosphere.

Something was wrong.

He flashed a puzzled glance at the readout panel to his left. Main radar systems showing nothing amiss, he shrugged it off as fatigue, residue of the punishing training programs he'd thrown himself into.

Luke's muscles tensed.

A heartbeat later, the bottom fell out of his world.

The _Privateer_ plunged screaming in freefall around him. The sudden change of direction caught the ship's dampening field off-guard and meant Luke was ripped from his piloting station and placed on the ceiling in a fraction of a second. He felt G-Force press him against the hard duracrete surface as, outside, the total cloud cover parted briefly and allowed him to see the moist skin of the planet rocketing in entirely the wrong direction.

The Force flowed through him, soothing and easing his pain, whispering solutions in his ear. As the huge, slimy sea miles below grew closer with each passing breath Luke reached out through the Force and began to attack the air around the ship. He gritted his teeth as the excited molecules outside grated infinitesimally against the hull, producing the merest degree of friction wherever it did so.

Luke carried on, pouring his rage into the air, blaming it for everything that had happened, cursing it for the Death Star, for the Empire, for his father's death.

For Leia.

More and more of the heavy, swamp-like vapour joined the struggle as Luke writhed in effort.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, the ship's runaway descent began to slow.

Luke became dimly aware that there was a huge concentration of bacterium contained in the almost-toxic mix. He attacked these too, made them squeal and writhe in pain. The air slowly turned a hue of red as the heat of the Force-induced friction grew and grew with each collision he caused. Still he pressed on, still his eyes were clamped shut until his whole universe was dedicated to slowing the ship. Veins stood out on his neck and forehead with the effort.

_Why is this happening?_, his mind cried out. _It doesn't make any sense. This ship is too advanced - my powers... _

Roaring with pain and paralysed in place with the immensity of the G-Forces, Luke gave it all he had.

It wasn't enough.

_Impact._


	8. Jedi Search

**Galaxies Apart**

**Seven**

The _Falcon _swept gracefully (or at least, as gracefully as it could) into the binary system of Tatooine.

Han did his best to ignore the memories. The last time he'd been here…he'd scooted out with his tail between his legs, three Star Destroyers in pursuit and a strange cargo of two humans and two droids on board. It was a trip that had changed his life.

_Should have_, he corrected himself angrily. It was a journey which _should _have changed his life. Truth be told it was a trip which had completely destroyed his life. He wondered why he didn't regret it, and gave up. These days he'd long since surrendered to his psyche.

Five years ago, Han Solo was the most talked-about smuggler for years, the man who'd made the Kessel run in record time by skating across the gravity field of a few local black holes. One of the fastest draws in the galaxy, the best pilot not flying under a flag and captain of a ship fast carving a name for itself in folk legend.

Now, Han Solo was a loner, a wanted man, a fugitive. Forgotten. Pilot of a crumbling ruin, a prisoner of the past who had been exiled from whatever future awaited this galaxy.

_No_, Han thought defiantly. _Not after today._

Behind him Artoo whistled a hello. Han swivelled to face the astromech. He'd actually grown quite fond of Artoo; the little guy was hard-working, dedicated, and skilful. Best of all, he spoke in a language only the _Falcon's _computers could understand. Unlike, for example-

"Master Solo!"

Chewie rumbled awake. Han gritted his teeth. Artoo shifted from one wheel to the other.

"Yes?" Solo asked.

Threepio jerked to a halt, his dented exterior dull in the half-light of the approaching planet. His eyes flickered wildly. Threepio had been running on one-quarter power for almost eight months, and the strain was showing on his internal systems.

Han suspected the droid's neural net had been permanently damaged, but he wasn't going to tell Artoo that. It didn't make dealing with an insane robot easier.

"Sir, I must protest. You neglected to inform me before dropping the _Falcon _out of hyperspace again."

"So sorry," growled Han, turning back to his displays.

"_Really_," Threepio sniffed. "It isn't too much to ask, is it? My motor circuits are probably done for."

Han and Chewie exchanged glances. Hyperspace deceleration produced no G-Force. If it did, they'd all be thin protein streams by now. That meant that whatever breakdowns Threepio was going through were spreading to other systems.

Artoo gave a few low, mournful clicks and wheeled off.

_He knows_.

"Well I'm telling you now. We're coming in to land. Get back and strap in, Goldenrod."

"This is the _Misdemeanor_," Han said, flicking a switch to activate the comm system as Threepio bustled away. "Requesting permission to land at Mos Eisley."

He waited impatiently while one Imperial technocrat or another got round to answering. "Granted, _Misdemeanor_. You're cleared to land in Docking Bay 94."

Bay 94. The same bay he'd blasted out of three years ago. What were the odds?

Chewie growled softly.

"Yeah," Han said, activating defensive scans and prepping shields, "I know exactly what you mean."

The _Falcon _skirted the edge of the atmosphere. Han hesitated. _Not now_, he thought, _please. _The cargo of corrosite ore stored in his hold would pay off Jabba and let Han live his life again. Two hundred and fifty thousand credits worth. It was more money than Han had ever held in his life. It wasn't for him. It was, he hoped, enough to convince Jabba to forgo any thoughts of a double-cross.

But you never knew with a Hutt.

Chewie growled. _It's your call. _

Han grinned. He'd never been one for playing it safe, had he? "We're going in," he informed his co-pilot. The words had a certain nostalgic appeal. "Full throttle."

Chewie growled an exasperated response. Han tilted his head to the Wookiee and chuckled softly.

"I guess it's because 'we're going in at three-quarters sublight!' doesn't quite have the same ring."

---------------------------------------------------------

Tarkin seethed in silence. He'd been waiting for an audience with Vader for almost eight minutes, been kept stewing in this cramped, ridiculous little room on the _Executor _whilst the Dark Lord completed a 'relaxation cycle'- in other words, Tarkin thought, while his batteries recharged.

Have someone rushed over, and then have them wait until it was convenient for _you_ to see them. It was one of the most classic insults in the book, and one which possibly only Darth Vader would have dared to perform upon a Grand Moff as senior and as respected as Tarkin.

_Perhaps he's gone insane_, Tarkin mused. It was certainly not a notion to be dismissed offhand. These days Vader was under increasing pressure to retire; the Emperor had offered him a top bureaucratic post on the new Imperial Council, a post which he had refused.

Should he step down, the resulting power vacuum would not last very long before several made the leap. Tarkin was, of course, one of the favourites to jump.

Perhaps Vader had actually been informed that the time was near for him to move aside. Perhaps - Tarkin brightened somewhat at the thought - he'd also been told which candidate Palpatine was unofficially granting his approval to.

_Vader being petty? _Tarkin mulled it over for a moment, before filing it away. He would have less than a week before the Death Star took her place at the Victory Day Fleet Regatta celebrations to think about it. Any big announcements would be made there. Of that, he was certain.

The doors _swished _open. In swept Vader, unusually flanked by two stormtroopers. Tarkin doubted if any terrorist would be brave enough-or just plain stupid enough-to try his luck on Vader.

"Lord Vader," he said politely, inclining his head for a fraction of a second.

Vader halted his advance not two feet from Tarkin's pointed nose. "I demand an explanation."

"_Lord_ is your official honorific; I believe _Vader _is your given name as a Sith Master..."

He felt it then; a fleeting, spectral presence across his larynx, tightening it for an instant, letting go.

"Do not test me again, Tarkin."

"I know of nothing which needs explanation," Tarkin responded, recovering from the icy touch and containing his rage.

Darth motioned. The stormtroopers, grateful beyond all words, cleared the room inside a few seconds.

"What was the Death Star doing at Ryxx?"

Tarkin frowned, genuinely puzzled. "We were scheduled to patrol the area. Routine fear tour, Darth, inspire a little terror in the local vermin and the crooked governor, that sort of thing. Is there a problem?"

Vader's breathing grew dangerously soft. "A _routine _patrol needed to dispatch five TIE bombers?"

Tarkin shook his head. "None of our TIE bombers were dispatched in the Ryxx system. In fact only two fighters were launched - TIE Interceptors - to clear a small asteroid patch in our path. You've been misinformed."

"You're telling the truth," Vader said.

"I'm so glad you think so."

"And the operation on the planet's surface?"

Tarkin shook his head. "I wasn't informed of any such exercise…" his natural curiosity prompted him to add, "Lord Vader - what is this all about? Did something happen on Ryxx while we were there?"

Vader's mask was as impassive as ever. "I have proof of a bungled Imperial raid on Ryxx. There is evidence of Jedi involvement."

Tarkin didn't reply for quite some time. He was a flawed man in many ways, yet he had an abhorrence for conspiracies; particularly those he himself didn't start, acquiesce to, organise or participate in.

"You're certain of the Jedi involvement?" Tarkin said, scowling. He mistrusted the Force, deeply.

"There _is_ another Jedi out there. I had felt his strength in the Force before. We will meet again."

Tarkin didn't bother asking. Vader had been able to deal with Kenobi with the minimum of fuss, considering the old man's reputation, on the Death Star. This new Jedi would be no different. It was the TIE bombers which bothered him. Only an influential figure in the Imperial Navy with connections in Intelligence could possibly have ordered such a mission, and orchestrated the cover-up.

"I am no fool, Tarkin," Vader said. If that artificial tone could be said to have emotion, it almost seemed thoughtful now. "It has become all too clear to me," he said at last, "that my role in the Empire is diminishing."

_Not insane, then_. "We won, Darth," Tarkin shrugged. "We have no need for miracles anymore."

"Perhaps your confidence is misplaced," Vader warned. "The Rebellion may be gone, but the war is far from over."

_That Ssi-ruuk nonsense again_, Tarkin thought with a small sigh. To Vader he said, "You would like us, I presume, to come to some sort of investigative agreement over your claims. Very well. I have…extensive…contacts throughout the Empire. If a conspiracy exists, I will find it. You have my word."

Vader didn't bother to respond. He walked to the window that looked out to the Death Star, and the expanse of the starfield beyond.

"May I ask what you plan to do?"

"I will be taking my personal shuttle. Alone."

Tarkin raised both eyebrows. "Alone? Isn't that a little…risky?"

"I wish to travel unnoticed, Tarkin. Doing so in a fifteen-mile long Super Star Destroyer is surprisingly difficult."

---------------------------------------------------------

Admiral Piett stepped out of the office. He moved determinedly for his quarters, ignoring any and all greetings on the way. Once inside his personal domain he strode purposefully for a certain part of a certain wall. Grasping the chilled, cylindrical object stored inside, he set it carefully on the dining table and retrieved his crystal glasses, the pair given to him by his parents long ago.

_Pop._ Piett filled both glasses with the sparkling liquid.

"Here's to you, Darth," he said, hoisting the glass aloft, "wishing you a very happy and a very _long _vacation. Wherever you may go, rest assured the _Executor _will be right behind you."

He downed the first glass in one, and grinned with satisfaction.

"About fourteen sectors behind you."


	9. The Dark Side of the Trench

**Galaxies Apart**

**Eight**

_Use the Force, Luke. _

Luke shook his head, impatiently. This was no time for him to become delusional. Around him his X-Wing swerved to the left and right as he tried to jink his way out of trouble, tried every trick he'd ever learned in Beggar's Canyon and beyond to squeeze another few seconds of existence from an unsympathetic Fate.

He strained to peer through the targeting computer, its computer readout counting down the time until his torpedoes could cross the distance from his sturdy little craft into the crucial exhaust port.

_Yes, Luke. Use the Force. Remember how the Imperials killed your aunt and uncle, Luke? Recall the asteroid field that previously had been home to a couple of billion innocent civilians, Luke? How does that make you feel, Luke?_

Luke shivered. It made him angry. He felt the hatred fill him, and bathed in the heat. Let it flow.

As it coursed through him he suddenly felt _bigger_. More…more _him_, somehow. The X-Wing around him seemed to meld into his body, so it was difficult to tell where he ended and it began.

He _understood. _

The three TIEs behind him…he could _feel _every one of them. Biggs. His friend. His childhood hero. Now nothing more than floating debris, destroyed at the whim of a tyrant. The trench, with its bumps and canyons, daring to imitate Beggar's Canyon, which had sheltered life, had sheltered him.

The gun turrets, _daring_ to spit turbolaser fire at him and his friends.

_Daring_ to put Leia into danger.

His hands moved. The readout panel beside his left eye spun and retracted into its metal burrow.

"_Luke_," came the tinny echo of Yavin's Base One, "_Luke, you've switched off your targeting computer. What's wrong?_"

An image sprang unbidden into his mind. His aunt and uncle, nothing more than charred and smoking corpses over a barren landscape. His homestead destroyed. The sandcrawler shot to hell. Threepio and Ben carrying little broken Jawa corpses to a makeshift pyre in the desert.

"Nothing," he assured Base One, "I'm all right."

It was time.

He threw the X-Wing into a vertical loop, the trench spinning crazily around him as he fought against G-Force and the constraints of the craft itself. The control stick in his hands threatened to wrest itself from his grip. He held on, with body and mind. A turret flashed for an instant before him as the X-Wing hit the apex of the climb.

Then-

The TIEs appeared before him. He thumbed for manual control, disregarding the crosshairs which told him only where the TIEs _were_. The Force told him where they were _going. _

He fired.

His shots lanced out across the space, tearing into the rightmost Imperial craft and ripping it to shreds. The central TIE lurched wildly to the left in a vain attempt to avoid his cannon, an act which accomplished only a collision with the remaining TIE.

The impact destroyed the leftmost craft and left the central ship spinning into space, completely out of control.

Luke brought his X-Wing's nose down and thumbed the control for the S-Foils, ignoring the frenzied screams of his resident astromech whilst he did so.

The X-Wing rocketed toward the floor of the trench. He flipped the X-Wing right way up barely ten feet from the surface. The resulting acceleration pushed him into his seat.

Alliance pilots were taught never to close the S-Foils during space combat as even a tiny hit sustained at the incredible velocities sustained with closed foils would be fatal.

As a result, Luke was not only having to fight against the remaining turrets but also the movement of the Death Star itself, still proceeding inexorably closer to the fourth moon of Yavin.

His X-Wing had overcome the Death Star's gravity well, and reached escape velocity. The trench walls took on a life of their own. The concentration on his face never wavered for a second.

Inside the Death Star, Tarkin smiled in satisfaction. He'd just been told that they were in range.

"…you may fire when ready," he finished, standing ramrod straight, furious at his own nervousness.

"Commence primary ignition," the chief technician said, beginning the firing sequence.

Outside, Han Solo stared in abject disbelief as the X-Wing shot down the trench like a bullet. Luke had said he was 'not such a bad pilot'. That got Han's vote for understatement of the century.

"_You're all clear, kid! Now let's blow this thing and go home!_" Han screamed over the comm.

Luke heard him.

The end of the trench bore down at horrendous speed. With no pursuing TIEs, the Empire let rip with turbolasers. A barrage of death rained toward him, but none impacted.

He was all clear.

He opened the S-Foils. The X-Wing's two fins split into four, slowing the craft, unlocking the guns and the torpedoes.

He fired.

The payload detached from his craft and entered the exhaust port without complaint. He threw the poor X-Wing into one last one-eighty and hit full throttle.

The Death Star began to fall away behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the tiny shapes of Wedge's X-Wing flying to safety. An irregular silhouette against the overhead brilliance of Yavin told him Han was also OK.

Inside the Death Star, Tarkin rubbed his chin in anxiety.

Inside the Death Star, a tiny device _whirred _softly to itself. A proton inhibitor.

The tertiary beams met-

Reality exhaled-

And with a soundless roar the Death Star exploded, a blossoming flower of destruction in the vacuum. Luke refused to shield his eyes from the sight, though the sheer intensity of the eruption made them ache.

As the first superheated pieces of debris sparked against his navigational shields he heard the sounds of celebrations over the comm. Heard Generals crying like babies.

"_Great shot, kid! That was one in a million!_"

Luke sighed to himself, unable yet to reply. He patted his instrument panels tenderly, spared a glance back at an unscathed Artoo Detoo, who was _bleeping _and _chirping _his congratulations.

His tired eyes settled on his statistical readouts.

"Artoo…" he said slowly, "…check the X-Wing's system logs, will you?"

Artoo paused, and _bleeped_. The translation sprang up.

"But that's impossible!" Luke spluttered.

Artoo warbled again. No mistake.

Luke had six torpedoes in his launchers. He'd started the mission with precisely six torpedoes in his launchers. Had watched all six be installed.

According to his X-Wing he hadn't fired anything at the exhaust shaft.

_Oh, but you did_. _You fired yourself, Luke. Remember how you felt when you saw that two metre target? How angry? What you saw streak away weren't proton torpedoes. It was your anger. It was the Dark Side of the Force._

Suddenly voice didn't sound like Ben Kenobi. It was too deep, deeper even than Ben, and so…

"Red Five, this is Base One," his radio broke the spell, causing Luke to start. "We've just received word that _another_ Death Star is approaching from sector five-two-seven. This one's a lot bigger, too. Do you think you could…?"

Luke's head was invaded by insane laughter. He clasped his hands to his ears.

"You fool," Base One snarled, . "You let Biggs die…allowed Leia to die, the entire Rebellion to perish…because you were too _frightened _of what you could do?"

"_Shut up_!" Luke snapped. He turned off the commlink.

It did no good. As if its speaker was whispering conspiratorially into his ear, the voice continued _you're a miserable excuse for a hero. I'm going to tear you apart. I will be the hero you never were. _

_And you'll never see me coming…_

---------------------------------------------------------

"Awake, are you?"

Light seared into his eyes as he opened them, scalding every optic nerve. From head to toe he ached, ears telling him the mystery voice was approaching. His eyes remained fixed on the evening sky; his neck either couldn't move or wasn't prepared to.

"Help me, please," he pleaded.

"Oh," the voice replied grimly. "Not sure am I that can be done. Pick you up I will. Feed you I will. Easy are these things to do. But help you? Nothing is certain."

Luke's world swam lazily, cruelly. He felt sure he was going to black out. "How do you know me?" he moaned weakly, before the sky overhead became one with his world again.

He fell back into the abyss.

Yoda remained standing on the rock for some time. The Jedi Master finally shrugged and shuffled away, the body of Luke Skywalker following behind at an altitude of five feet.

"Complicate matters this does," the Jedi muttered to himself. "Not sure am I. Wrong, all of this is."


	10. The Prize

**Galaxies Apart**

**Nine**

Coruscant. Imperial Center. Whatever you called it – Thrawn preferred the original title, though he would be unlikely to admit as much to his host later – there was little doubt that the planet through whose atmosphere his shuttle was currently descending was one of the true wonders of the galaxy.

There were five major trade routes circumnavigating the known worlds, and only in one planet did all of them intersect. Only one planet had been given the hyperspace co-ordinates of 0,0,0.

Only one planet had an estimated population of in excess of one _trillion_ sentient beings. Thrawn shook his head in wonder. Coruscant wasn't a planet. It was an entire galaxy in microcosm – except that the _micro _wasn't all that small, in this case. Little wonder the Emperor had begun the Empire here.

Thrawn readied himself as his shuttle began the docking procedure for a graceful touchdown on the roof of the Palace itself.

The chatter of password and counter-password reached his sharp ears. He paid little attention to the ins and outs of petty Imperial security these days.

After all…when he had Rukh by his side, what need he fear?

His pet Noghri, five feet of unassuming killer, sat opposite him in the shuttle. Rukh had been top of his class in all aspects of the Noghri training scheme. Vader, grand overseer of the Noghri 'project', had given him to Thrawn as a gift.

The Grand Admiral smiled to think of that. He expected that Darth would either think him intimidated by a bodyguard so ruthlessly efficient or unnerved at a present of a personal killer from a man who would be happy to see him dead.

"Thank you," Thrawn had said, politely. Vader's silence had been deafening.

"Docking begins in ten seconds, Grand Admiral," his pilot informed him.

"Fine, Commander. My compliments on a steady landing."

"Thank you, sir," the pilot said mournfully. Thrawn had found that prophetic compliments were an extremely effective way of motivating those under his command.

The shuttle's engines throttled down to barely three percent power, and the sturdy little transport glided downward through the night sky of Coruscant. A myriad of lights and flickering holo-emitters blended with the huge silhouettes of nearby high-rises.

A few kilometres away the Imperial Museum, housing the largest collection of relics in the galaxy, was no more than an irregular blackness against the cityscape. To his left Thrawn could discern the holding cells where early in his career he'd been in charge of eradicating as many Jedi as possible. Below him, somewhere, a huge network of tunnels slalomed through the metropolis.

He'd heard stories of the secrets of the Imperial Palace; indeed, the last time he'd been here he'd been the guest of the Emperor himself at his promotion gala for his unprecedented rapid rise to the rank of Grand Admiral.

That night Palpatine had told him stories of politics that had shaped countless nations, and revealed his plans for the production of the Death Stars.

He'd hadn't been surprised to see Tarkin given the Death Star. Tarkin had played the game for long enough. But that was then. Since that time, Thrawn had carved his name in Imperial myth through triumphs out on the Rim – successes, he knew, that had earned him an underground following in the Imperial hierarchy.

Even Thrawn, isolated in the Outer territories as he had been, had heard the rumours of a coup to oust Vader being all but inevitable. He knew full well that in the aftermath of such a bloodbath the opportunity was there to climb the rankings.

The question was – was he ready to take it?

The shuttle settled. Thrawn strode purposefully down the ramp as soon as it extended.

"Grand Admiral," another faceless aide saluted him reverentially. "An honour indeed. This way, sir," and with that, the landing party parted smoothly to allow him to pass.

_The corridors of power_, Thrawn thought. He wondered how many of his peers had passed down these narrow, winding paths in the last few decades, knowing they were about to meet the Emperor.

He had great admiration for the way Palpatine had spun the mythos around himself so completely that his entire military were focussed on the race for second place. No-one, so far as he knew, had even considered deposing Palpatine himself.

He glanced for a second at Rukh, keeping pace as usual. The Noghri never failed to spring new surprises in terms of their ability, true, but he would doubt if even the best assassins and commandos the Empire had ever known could pull off such a job.

Thrawn entered the Throne Room.

It was typical of the grandiose nonsense the Empire was so fond of. Thirty metres long and just twelve metres wide-a trick he'd seen before in such places, designed to pull the beholder's eyes to the end of the room and, inevitably, the occupant of the throne.

Thrawn kept his eyes moving as he continued walking. There was no shortage of artwork to catch his connoisseurs eye…dead animals scattered, a deceased member of some unfortunate race dangling over _there_, and what looked like the remains of an X-Wing in the far corner.

A motif of death. He kept his artistic opinion hidden.

"Grand Admiral Thrawn," the aide announced him to the cowled figure seated on the Throne itself.

"A pleasure to see you again," Palpatine said, his pale features shining out from the dark blue of his robe. "Please," he added, and an equally white hand indicated a resplendent chair opposite his own.

"Of course, my Lord," Thrawn nodded, and sat.

"You have a reputation," Palpatine began, typically direct, "as an intelligent man. It is one well deserved, I am sure."

"I am fortunate to enjoy my Lord's favour," Thrawn returned cautiously.

Palpatine's sunken face pulled tight in a ghastly smile. "Then why," he said softly, "should _I_ be made to do all the work in this meeting, Grand Admiral? Why don't you tell me what I'm going to say."

Thrawn wondered if this was the time to pontificate. He had no doubt others in this position would have disclaimed their right to place words in their ruler's mouth.

That wasn't his style.

"I am here for you to submit a proposal for my consideration. Given my strengths, it is of course a military proposal, with tactical aspects, which leads me to believe that you have a problem, and think that I might be your solution to that problem. Given the recent Fleet reports I would guess that the problem lies with our largest rivals, the Ssi-ruuk Imperium. If I understand correctly, they have resisted all of our attempted incursions into their territory with deadly force. I presume you wish me to try to reverse this trend."

The Emperor smiled.

"I should know better than to test you," he nodded to Thrawn, "your battle statistics are no fluke, Grand Admiral. Without doubt you're the best kept secret the Empire has at its disposal…and an asset I intend to make full use of against those vile reptiles and their repulsive Imperium."

"I have made my fair share of mistakes, I can assure you."

"Yes," Palpatine agreed readily, "not being born human the worst of them," and he fixed Thrawn with a glare, "but these are changing times, are they not? The Empire is too large for humans alone to rule."

Now this _was _surprising. Palpatine had practically invented the anti-alien prejudices of the Empire. Thrawn was able to recognise an old-fashioned bigot when he saw one. He wondered why Palpatine was lying.

"Non-humans need better integration into the Empire," Palpatine went on, "but we need a role model for them, Grand Admiral, someone for them to idolise. I want that someone to be you."

"I…am flattered," Thrawn replied, his mind turning this over and over. Apparently the rumours of serious strife at the very top of the tree had some basis in reality. The Emperor seemed a changed man since their last meeting. On that occasion Thrawn had felt that he was no more than a mildly amusing novelty in a cage.

Now he detected no such vibes of invincibility from the old man. Now he detected simply age, and worry.

"I will remove you from your current assignment and placing you directly in the front line for the coming war against the Ssi-ruuk."

Thrawn nodded. "That large a challenge I would relish," he said, meaning every word.

Palpatine paused. "There are some," the Emperor hissed in distaste, leaning forward, "who consider our current Fleet numbers as satisfactory. Can you believe that? There are some who would happily have us stop military construction now and consolidate the territory we currently own."

"You don't hold the same opinion," Thrawn supplied.

"The galaxy needs order, Grand Admiral, whether it realises it or not. The Empire can supply it."

"We are stretched thin, my Lord," Thrawn pointed out mildly. "There are only so many worlds we can police."

Palpatine seemed to ignore this. "The Victory Day celebrations are almost upon us. For the past two years Empire has unveiled its newest technologies at the accompanying Regatta – I'm sure you've seen the holo-recordings."

"Of course," Thrawn confirmed. New ships were unveiled at the Regatta for two reasons; firstly because, since its inception after the Battle of Yavin IV, it was the most prestigious event in the Imperial calendar and, secondly and more importantly, security was all but guaranteed with the presence of the rest of the Imperial Fleet nearby.

"This year's event will be the biggest yet," Palpatine promised. "Our new attraction is finally ready. You."

"Me?"

"Yes," Palpatine confirmed. "You will have the honour, _Fleet_ Admiral Thrawn, of being commanding officer of the most powerful ship in the galaxy – a second Death Star, _Palpatine_, with a weapons system twice as powerful as the original. You will lead your ships into Ssi-ruuvi space and complete the next phase in the expansion of the Empire."

His pale face glowed with fervour. To Thrawn it looked like insanity, and that was his biggest mistake of all.

"What do you say, Fleet Admiral?"

_This is wrong. This is crazy. _Thrawn was a master tactician, a peerless commander at pulling victories from the most unlikely of situations, at winning despite the odds. To give him the keys to a weapon as powerful as a Death Star – which could be commanded by a complete moron and still pulverise its way to victory – made no sense.

"Thank you, my Lord," Thrawn said. For whatever reason, Palpatine had just made him the most powerful man in the Empire. He wasn't about to say no.

"_Palpatine's _energy shield is the largest and strongest protective barrier ever to be constructed. Nothing will stop you."

"Short of another Death Star," Thrawn replied.

Palpatine's expression hardened. "That is hardly likely to be of concern."

"Of course not," Thrawn said smoothly. He had seen it, for a fleeting moment – that flicker on Palpatine's face. "Thank you, my Lord."

Palpatine smiled again. "Now, Grand Admiral, all you have to do is go to Sluis Van and collect your prize…"


	11. Spies & Lies

**Galaxies Apart**

**Ten**

He wasn't what you would call an accomplished spy. No-one in their right minds would consider him to be an experienced espionage agent for the Rebel Alliance.

"Are you serious?"

He pushed the package across the filthy table. "I mean it. This data wafer contains the names and locations of the members of the Rebel council. Do you want it," he continued, waving the thin strip back and forth tantalisingly, "or don't you?"

He stared into the muzzle of the blaster.

"So you're interested?"

His negotiating partner smiled, revealing a row of pointed incisors. Being a race of six-foot plus voracious needle-toothed horned carnivores, Devaronians had very little work to do on their image in order to intimidate.

"You could say that," the Devaronian grinned, waving the blaster back and forth.

"So let's do business."

This warranted a quirky, puzzled smile. "You don't seem to understand the situation here," the Devaronian said slowly, in a voice he usually reserved for dealing with droids.

Lifting his blaster up, he gestured to it and remarked, "This is a gun. Now…the procedure we're dealing with here is your classic double-cross. I'm," he patted his chest with his free hand, "the experienced criminal, taking advantage of the naïve, out-of-his-depth small fry."

He paused.

"That's you," he said, for clarification.

"So," the spy said after a second's thought, "you - as the experienced criminal - are going to double-cross...?" he waved a hand for confirmation. Seeing the Devaronian nod encouragingly, he pressed on, "…me out of this information in this wafer _here_-"

There was a muffled _blamm_.

The Devaronian slumped forward.

Wedge Antilles tapped his forehead. "I get it!" he exclaimed. He stepped away and walked out of the Mos Eisley cantina, without bothering to cast a glance back at the smoking corpse.

---------------------------------------------------------

Wedge sighed. "…understand, yes. Only too well, I assure you. Well, thank you for your valuable time, Dravis."

He cut the transmission, frustrated. His primary mission to uncover the Devaronian traitor had been a success, yes, but yet another smuggler had just told him the same damned story - we don't work for free. Trying to tell them that the Empire was about to drop the hammer on their kind was thus far falling on deaf ears.

Wedge Antilles, unaccomplished spy, also happened to be one of the most experienced operatives left alive in the Alliance. He hadn't volunteered for this mission, that was for sure; but with opportunities for combat at a bare minimum there had been little else to use a space pilot for.

The Alliance was all but dead.

His X-Wing cleared the planetary atmosphere. Wedge immediately felt a little better. A boy raised on a space station never felt as comfortable on dry land as he did in the wide black yonder - his father had told him that on more than one occasion.

His father had also maintained that the Empire would implode in a matter of years. That didn't look like being so accurate.

His son was doing his bit. Sure, the Alliance hadn't been capable of causing the Empire more than minor inconveniences here and there over the past few years, but they were still there.

The Empire was still oppressing its citizens so brutally that common sense dictated something had to give. Surely. Sometime.

Wedge grinned. The Alliance wasn't prepared to wait for that to happen.

If Ackbar's latest planworked...he dared to hope that it might, and shivered at the thought. He laid in the course for his next destination. Tatooine grew smaller and smaller behind him. His Artoo unit _bleeped_. Hyperspace was moments away.

Hadn't Luke Skywalker come from there?

Wedge shrugged away the thought. Skywalker had vanished after his torpedoes had missed, and only rumours of his whereabouts had surfaced since - rumours of a mercenary for hire, someone who got the job done, someone they rumoured had the Force behind him.

Wedge's jaw set as he recollected the Battle of Yavin. He'd been so _certain_ that Solo's heroics had cleared Luke a path for the exhaust shaft. But it wasn't to be. Even with the chasing TIEs off his back, of course, the shot Skywalker had to make hadn't been easy - hell, some of the pilots had called it nigh on impossible - but it was there.

He remembered Skywalker's fateful boast at the briefing before they had engaged the Death Star.

_I used to bullseye womprats in my T-16 back home. They're not much bigger than two metres…_

Wedge wondered if the words had come back to haunt Skywalker, in whatever life he was leading now.

---------------------------------------------------------

Luke sat up, eyes wide-

"Ow!"

He rubbed his head, gingerly exploring the lump that was forming there already. The ceiling in this place were little over five feet high at its highest point, even less than that where he now lay.

Where _was _this place?

It was warm; the heat, although muggy, was welcome. He had a vague memory of coldness teasing the edge of his sluggish brain.

There was an aroma pervading the place that he couldn't define, exactly. It was almost as if the room smelled of everything at once, as if his nostrils were inhaling the very odour of-

"Alive, he is!"

"Ow!"

Luke _did _remember that voice, but hazily. Certainly he had never seen such a creature before.

The little guy stood three, maybe four feet at the most, gnarled green skin sprouting white wiry hairs. Two hairy ears extended like sentries above that squat frame, over a face full of expression and vibrancy, dominated by two large, soulful eyes filled with experience.

"Who are you?"

The creature waddled over, gave him a sharp glance and poked him with a damp stick in the ribs.

"Ow!" said Luke, for the third time. "What are you doing?"

"Always so tall, are you?" the strange thing complained. "Hold you my little house will not."

"I'm sorry," Luke muttered darkly. "Could you please answer my question, and I'll be on my way?"

"Where?" asked the dwarfish figure, impudently.

"Who _are _you?"

"I am Yoda," said Yoda, patting himself with his stick.

Luke had to check himself from sitting bolt upright. His sight told him that this creature was knee height, frail and old. Yet it had just proclaimed itself as the last Jedi Master in the galaxy, and one of the most legendary figures of the past few centuries.

"Yeah, sure you are," Luke said, impatiently.

"Judge me by my size, do you?"

"I don't like being attacked as soon as I enter orbit," he said, ignoring the creature's ridiculous claims and trying his best to accomplish the same feat with the stench pervading this hovel.

"Attacked?" Yoda repeated.

"What would you call losing control of your ship for no good reason?" Luke shot back. "The only explanation I can think of is that this Yoda, wherever he is, decided he didn't want company here."

"Always so sure of yourself, are you?"

With a tired sigh Luke pulled off the incredibly rough blanket. "Look, little guy - thanks for taking me in. I was pretty beat up over there. I'll throw you some supplies, or some credits, whatever. But I really have to find Yoda, so I'm gonna be on my way."

He stood up as best he could, body bent almost double from the waist to prevent his head from going through what felt like a flimsy thatch roof. This little guy was able to scratch out a life in this place?

"Why in such a rush are you, Luke Skywalker?"

Halfway to the door, Luke discovered the central roof ceiling wasn't as flimsy as it first appeared. It took him a good couple of seconds to manoeuvre enough momentum for a full one-eighty. When he had done so, the little guy was squatting on his bed, watching Luke with something like amusement.

"How-"

"Luke Skywalker, yes," his healer cooed, "think himself a great Jedi already, he does. Chase every lead to increase his own Force powers he will, so hungry and so desperate for revenge he is. So full of blame. _Everything_ his fault is."

Seeing Luke's amazement, Yoda picked up his stick again and poked him in the ribs sharply. "Why so blind must you make yourself?" he demanded. "Why always with you it cannot be done?"

Luke, feeling very embarrassed and more than a little foolish, spluttered an apology to the Jedi Master. "Why seek me out did you?"

"I want to learn from you. Become your student. I want to – I _have _to – become a Jedi Knight."

"Why?" Yoda asked.

He hadn't expected that question. Luke paused. "I want to fight the Empire as a Jedi like Obi-wan and my father before me. To restore peace and justice to the galaxy."

"Really?" Yoda nodded. "Your true motives, those are?"

Luke's mouth dried. "What better cause is there?" he answered Yoda's stare weakly.

Yoda didn't hesitate. "Revenge."

The ensuing silence said quite a lot. Luke's head dipped, a fractional acknowledgement of the truth.

"The Empire killed my family," he said defiantly after another few seconds, "the Empire hunted down my father, had him killed for being a Jedi Knight. The Empire murdered my Aunt and Uncle in cold blood. So yeah, revenge. You better _believe_ there'll be revenge."

"The Force," Yoda said slowly, gently, "must be used for knowledge and defence. But used for attack, it should never - _never _- be."

"Why?"

"The Dark path it is," Yoda responded instantly. "Fear, anger, lust, revenge. Once you start down that path…forever will it dominate your destiny."

Luke shivered. "Like Vader," he said.

"Yes."

"But I won't _be _like Vader. I'm not evil, like he was. He and I are nothing like one another."

Yoda looked away. "Face him, you must," he said quietly, not able then to look Luke in the eyes.

"And I will," Luke promised, trying to keep the eager note from his voice and mostly failing. "I'll face him, and I'll kill him."

Yoda had said nothing.

His ship, the _Privateer_, did indeed wait for him nearby. Luke inspected it with amazement. It was only a short time ago this very vessel shot into the depths of Dagobah's teeming-with-life oceans. It would have taken heavy-duty machinery, huge drilling equipment and a repulsorlift bank costing thousands of credits to extract the _Privateer _within a few days.

Yoda had done it within hours. From two hundred miles away.

Luke would never judge anything by its size again.

Feeling indebted to Yoda, Luke had invited him to move into the _Privateer_'s cargo bay and leave behind his hut. It was freezing in there at night. If Luke lived somewhere so cold, maybe he'd be a little reluctant to talk about size too.

Yoda refused. Despite the little Jedi's urgings to lodge with him in his hut, Luke remained onboard the _Privateer_. Prior to now he had never fully appreciated the joys of a nine-foot ceiling level and food that remained stationary whilst you ate it.

Nights on Dagobah descended like an ambush. The change startled Luke. Growing up on Tatooine had not been the best preparation for this place. He couldn't figure out why a Jedi Master like Yoda had retreated to a world like this. Had he wanted to? Or had he been forced to run?

And if he had…what had he been running from?


	12. Tales from Jabba's Palace

**Galaxies Apart**

**Eleven**

Luke's home planet was indeed a wasteland. Several settlers there had commented that the transport ship which had brought them to Tatooine had contained better arable land. Many moisture farmers were either exiles from the Empire or working solely to build up enough capital to afford the ferrying rates offworld.

Only in one place did Tatooine attract as many parasites as Dagobah.

"Jabba," Han Solo said, inclining his head in greeting.

The Hutt slobbered copiously by way of response. Jabba the Hutt, the most feared, despised, repulsive, scheming, untrustworthy, ruthless gangster this side of the Core was not a big fan of personal hygiene.

As Han watched, the monstrous fat slug reached one of his stubby arms into a nearby tank filled with viscous fluid, picked up a squealing little morsel and popped it whole into his mouth, tilting his head back and allowing the wretched creature to fall into his huge gullet.

"_Uuuurp_."

Han smiled a smile that wasn't exactly genuine. He'd come to learn from previous experience that when you stood on a trapdoor which led directly into a Rancor pit, a trapdoor released on a whim from the disgusting creature lounging on his throne, you tended to want to look on the bright side of things.

Han had stood here twice before and escaped with his life twice. He hoped fervently to add another notch to that tally.

"I have your money," he announced.

That surprised Jabba. The Hutt regarded Solo with sheer contempt and something bordering on disappointment. With a sinking heart, Han began to feel that Jabba had been looking forward to executing him for some time.

"You _have_ the bounty?" Jabba rumbled disbelievingly in Huttese, a language as ugly as its native speakers.

"No," Han replied calmly. The resident crowd around him hooted, convinced the show was back on. "I wanted to apologise for being late, so I gotcha a little more."

The room fell silent again.

"How much more?" Jabba spat.

"Three hundred thousand."

A brief furore at this, followed by more silence.

Jabba closed his eyes, thinking it over. Han's heart leapt. If the Hutt was stopping to consider his options, he might actually be interested. "Three hundred thousand," he repeated.

"You have it here, with you?" Jabba said, tone incredulous at such stupidity.

Han shook his head and risked a scoundrel's grin. "C'mon Jabba. You know how it goes. I have half. The rest I'll wire to your Coruscant account when I'm clear of the planet, after I'm sure you've lifted the bounty."

Jabba pounded his own stomach with his weak hands. "Do not presume to dictate terms to _me_, Solo."

Han bowed low. "Just making a suggestion, big guy."

The muttering from the assembled scum grew. Han was aware he wasn't making a lot of friends here. He was also aware that every single entrepreneur behind him would want to know how a terminally out-of-work smuggler like Han Solo got his hands on three hundred thousand credits.

He wasn't out of danger even if Jabba _did_ let him go and lift the bounty. Not by a long way.

"You cost me, Solo," Jabba reminded him, dangerously. "Dumping spice? Not the way to do business."

"Did I cost you three hundred thousand credits?" Han retorted, growing uneasy with this game.

"More, Solo. You cost me honour. Reputation. That can never be replaced with credits, no matter how many you spit at me to beg for your miserable life. You know what I think, Solo?"

Han shifted his weight on the trapdoor, ready to spring should the need arise. He measured distances.

"I think you're missing your little friends in the Rebellion. Is that it, Solo?" Jabba said savagely, over the derisive laughter of his minions. "Did it break your heart when you had to watch them die? Did you hear them scream?"

Han gritted his teeth. He hadn't expected Jabba to get personal. Kill him, maybe - not get personal.

"Take it or leave it, Jabba," he shrugged.

The Hutt gestured to his guards. They stepped back out of sight at his command. Around Han the crowd, who until that moment had been closing in, melted away from the grille where he stood.

Han realised this was it. Even if he were to move at the right time and escape the trapdoor, he'd be cut down in seconds by one of the guards. He hoped that Chewie would do what he told him to do and get the _Falcon _the hell out of Mos Eisley. Han had to stop just short of tying the Wookiee to the ship to stop him from coming.

But if he was to die, here, now, he wanted the ship to go on. He wanted his friend to go on.

Jabba's hand reached for the control.

"Solo," he said, "I have _enough_ credits."

"_Stop_," a sharp voice commanded. To Han's astonishment the Hutt's hand obeyed, freezing in place.

A movement of air told Han the speaker had stepped forward to stand alongside him. He didn't dare move his head even to identify his would-be saviour.

"What is the meaning of this?" Jabba demanded. His hand remained where it was. "Guards!"

Five hulking Gamorreans lurched forward to seize this interloper. Han saw, out of the corner of his eye, the mysterious figure raise a hand. The reptilian beasts staggered back, clutching their throats.

Jabba rumbled in anger at this new outrage. "Destroy him!" he boomed.

Blaster bolts homed in on them from all sides. Han prided himself that he was quick enough to drop to a crouch, but that was nothing compared to what the stranger was capable of.

The blue glow of a lightsaber now illuminated Jabba's throne room. The same lightsaber that had just carved a precise, life-saving path across the blaster bolts, deflecting them from their targets.

A moment later, and with barely a flicker of effort, seven blaster rifles were plucked from the hands of their owners and crushed in mid-air, before being dropped to the ground. The rain of fire stopped.

Han's heartbeat was now, by far, the loudest noise in the room.

"I wish to buy Han Solo's life," the stranger said, calmly. "Now, do we negotiate, or do you want to resume where we left off?"

Jabba's stubby fingers retreated a little from the release button. Han breathed again.

"State your price," the Jedi said boldly.

Jabba didn't hesitate. "One million credits."

The crowd gasped.

Han finally found the energy to glance at his new-found friend. It was a man, human by the look of him. Young, younger than Han anyway. There was something about him that Han recognised. Maybe not his face, the way he carried himself…

"Don't have it."

Jabba considered his options. "Nine hundred thousand," he conceded generously. "My final offer."

The stranger paused, and shook his head again. "Sorry." Han saw him sigh. "I never was much of a haggler. How about this…you give me Han, drop all the bounty on him and his friends on your honour as a Hutt…"

He held up his left hand. Han heard a tiny _bleeping _noise as the stranger slowly uncurled his fist.

Nestling in his palm was a thermal detonator.

"…and I'll let you live."

The crowd finished their retreat from the action area rather faster than they'd expected. Han felt his body go numb. He hadn't been this scared in...oh, the last eight seconds. The detonator _bleeped _ominously.

"You _dare _to enter my Palace and threaten _me_?" Jabba pounded his useless fists in rage.

"I do."

"You're willing to die here? Death by flash incineration on some backwater planet, among criminals and scum, holds no fears for you? Just to save the life of a worthless smuggler? Not such a fitting end for a Jedi Knight, wouldn't you say?"

_A Jedi_, Han thought. _Is that why he seems familiar? What in hell does a Jedi Knight want with me?_

"I'll say this once, Jabba. Hand over Solo and give me your word you'll drop the bounty or I release the kill-switch and we die. Fitting end or not."

Those who double-crossed Jabba the Hutt never survived very long to boast about their success. Jabba made an example of every one of them. Took them apart piece by piece in public view.

He had a reputation to uphold. He couldn't be seen to have been made a fool of in his own domain. The only way to cover it up would be to kill everyone in the room - possible, though it would cost him a fortune in fees. His huge eyes narrowed. Jedi could not read Hutt minds. He would need that trait now.

"I accept," Jabba said. "Leave with Solo, and never return. I give you my word, when you leave, the bounty shall be lifted and never reinstated."

All the young Jedi had to decide now was whether to accept the offer.

"I'll keep this on me, if you don't mind," Han's new friend nodded to Jabba, hefting the thermal detonator, "It has quite an effective lethal range."

Jabba held up his hands for all to see. "You have my word," he repeated. "I can give you no more."

With a twist of the Jedi's hand the thermal detonator's glow sputtered and died.

Dimly, Han felt his arm being tugged. "Come on, Solo," his saviour growled. "Don't faint on me now."

And Han raised his head to meet Jabba's gaze. Saw the expression there, the intent in his eyes.

He wrapped his arms around the Jedi's waist and charged.

Too late.

Jabba's prehensile tail flicked the backup control switch hidden behind the duracrete throne. "Silly Jedi! Silly Jedi!" he choked, laughing uproariously. He had given his word from the moment they left the palace. They would never leave.

Screaming, Han and the Jedi fell into the Rancor pit.


	13. The Alliance Strikes Back

**Galaxies Apart**

**Twelve**

Sluis Van was, in its own way, just as much of a galactic wonder as Coruscant.

Fleet Admiral Thrawn sat humbly in his ridiculously lavish personal shuttle, his first dividend of promotion, and absorbed the sheer magnitude of the interstellar ship-building industry laid out like a tapestry before him.

It was his second magnificent approach in the space of five days, and his artistic soul appreciated every moment. To his left, he could see the TIE manufacturing process in operation; the fantastic, immense construction droids which devoured raw materials and gestated fully-formed fighter and bomber skeletons.

The floating mooring yards for seventeen Star Destroyers, in varying degrees of completion.

The nearest to him bore the name _Chimaera_. It was, in his opinion, a much better name than _Palpatine._

"Two minutes to landing, Admiral."

"Mmm," Thrawn replied, absently. His attention turned to his right and the star of the show in Sluis Van. Filling the sky, filling everything it seemed, was the Death Star.

He marvelled at the scale of the undertaking. The repulsorlift bank supporting the Death Star's suspension above the surface was ludicrously immense in scope in itself. Thrawn had wondered at first what everyone else surely had wondered - why go to such amazingly difficult lengths to build a Death Star _on _an inhabited world, rather than to build it in a remote location, in secret?

It had come to him a few nights ago. An assembly line was being constructed here. The Empire was done with secrecy. It had won. It could build projects like this without fear of reprisals.

Sluis Van was an immense rock of a world, more than one hundred times the diameter of most inhabited worlds. A world able to cope with the stresses of having a small moon hovering three miles above its surface. All shipbuilding enterprises took part on the geo-stable northern hemisphere of the planet. The southern hemisphere, due to thinner crust, was a mass of volcanic activity through which the Old Republic had sunk huge generators.

Sluis Van could have produced enough energy to light Coruscant. Or, as the Emperor had realised, to project gravitational dampening fields to prevent the surrounding patch of planet from being ripped asunder from the gargantuan mass of the Death Star.

With all of this in place, a Death Star design that had taken over twenty years to complete first time around had been completed here on a larger scale in less than three.

Next time, he had been told, it would be half that.

His eyes followed the smooth curvature of the Death Star from the bottom up. There seemed to be no end to the thing. The main hangar bays on the _Palpatine_ could comfortably swallow four Star Destroyers. Such thoughts thrilled him and intimidated him in equal measure.

A crew capacity of two million people. Two _million. _Under _his _care. A complement of ten _thousand_ TIE fighters, three thousand TIE bombers, eight hundred of the advanced TIE Interceptors, more than a match for any Ssi-ruuk attack.

Seven hundred turbolaser batteries. All of which could _remain _operational when the main superlaser was charging. All thanks to the record-breaking size and complexity of the _Palpatine's _reactor core. A core which, at full capacity, could spit out enough energy per second to illuminate Coruscant for two minutes. A superlaser which had _fourteen _Main Stage beams.

And lastly, but certainly no less importantly...no thermal exhaust port.

He shook his head again at the folly of his appointment. The most incompetent stormtrooper trainee on Carrida could have taken the centre seat of this thing and spun victories whilst blindfolded and under instructions to give his orders in rhyming couplets. The whole _notion_ of tactics simply broke down in the face of a superlaser's destructive capabilities.

Of course, he wasn't going to complain. Not just because doing so would surely have meant his death; Thrawn wasn't blind to the potential of being the captain of the most powerful ship in the galaxy. He could indeed act as a role model for the Empire's next generation of recruits.

It was also, of course, a perfect springboard for a later leap into the higher ranks, much like Tarkin's situation now.

Yet sill he was unable to shake the sense of unease that had been nagging at him ever since the Emperor had offered him the post. In doing so Palpatine was taking a very large step toward one day having a non-human as the most powerful man in the Empire, perhaps even becoming Emperor. It seemed to fit perfectly with Palpatine's racial tolerance speech he'd given.

Yet Thrawn _knew _that for all the Emperor's pandering propaganda the man was anti-alien to the core. _Why give an alien he mistrusts so deeply a ship which can only improve his status?_

As the shuttle touched down softly, and the crowds outside applauded, he found himself doubting the logic more and more. _Why chose Victory Day to parade that same alien, if a backlash is inevitable?_

The door opened. Thrawn emerged to an adoring crowd. His hands waved and his mouth smiled, but his mind was occupied elsewhere.

---------------------------------------------------------

Wedge cheered as loudly as anyone. He wasn't _that _awful a spy.

"Crush the soul-suckers!" the woman next to him hollered. Anti Ssi-ruuvi feeling was running high. Wedge could appreciate why; the mysterious race of conquerors had been almost Empire-like in the speed and the efficiency of their conquest.

Which was why they made such ideal, and yet such uncomfortable allies.

He shivered at the memory. Sure, the Alliance was on its knees and had been that way for a long time…but the idea of siding himself with the cold species chilled him to his bones. If he ever discovered for sure that the rumours about their power source were true...

Wedge would gladly have fought arm in arm with the Imperial forces against the Ssi-ruuk had things been different. _As if_, he thought bitterly.

"Are you finished?" he asked the woman who had shouted her support. She sighed in exasperation.

"Honestly, Wedge Antilles…" she began, about-facing and striding away with Wedge in bemused tow, "…you simply are the _least _fun person to be with on a great day like this. I mean look around you-the birds are singing…"

"Sluis Van has no birds."

"…the sun is shining…"

"It's a binary system. I don't think that's too rare."

"…the Death Star is looking all spruce and polished and indestructible…"

There was a silence.

"Yeah," Wedge grinned. "It is, isn't it?"

They exchanged glances, and continued walking through the chaos of the assembled masses. Only at the fringes of the crowd where Imperials were scattered thinly across the viewing platform did his companion's demeanour change. Watching this process never failed to amaze Wedge.

Though this wasn't his first meeting with Winter, he found she still captivated him.

Winter had been a top-level operative firstly on Alderaan with Leia Organa's family. She'd earned her living back then as the eyes and ears of the Organa clan, the innocuous and seemingly insignificant beauty who would waltz from one function to the next. He wondered how many had known back then that this striking, silver-haired woman had an eidetic memory and one of the keenest brains he'd ever known.

When Bail Organa had made the decision to join the Alliance Winter had been pressed into Rebel service right away. Over the course of the next few years she had hurt the Empire time and again through espionage and subterfuge.

Wedge had heard stories that the Imperials had dedicated an entire section of their intelligence service to the identification and capture of this elusive Rebel operative.

The demise of the Rebellion's military exploits had meant that, if anything, Winter's role had increased.

"Thrawn was looking well," she commented, "a little troubled, though. From his profile, I don't think he would have wanted the _Palpatine _command. It's not the right ship for him."

"Who wouldn't want to command the most powerful ship in history?" Wedge said, incredulously.

Winter didn't reply; she had slipped into that analytical mode that made her such a good operative. "I'd still rather have any other Imperial tomorrow than him, though. He seems to have something that the rest of them lack…that little bit of mystique, the three-dimensional touch."

"He's not invincible."

This time she heard him. Her high-bred complexion flushed as she muttered, "He'd better not be, Antilles. There are an awful lot of lives hanging on this - including ours."

They sat together on a memorial bench. In the distance Thrawn was addressing the crowd, overshadowed by the immensity of the Death Star looming over all of them.

"Ackbar has been planning this for the last nine months. No one is expecting us to attack anyone or anywherethese days, particularly an Imperial stronghold like Sluis Van. We have the fleet standing by and ready to go. We have the ground teams set, and in position. And we have our little surprises for the Empire and for Thrawn."

He stopped, his voice faltering a little. His attention was being pulled toward that gargantuan station whether he liked it or not. It was bringing back painful memories. Words like _exhaust port _and snatches of conversations (…_I can't stay with you…_) whispered in his psyche.

"I've had to suffer for five years," he said. His tone caused her to jump slightly. "No more. We should have beaten the Empire once, at Yavin. They won that day, but the victories _stop here._"

He set his jaw.

"Tomorrow," he said, "the Alliance strikes back."

---------------------------------------------------------

The Rancor pit was deep, and its floor solid.

Han felt every inch of the drop as his shoulder impacted first on the ancient sandy floor. Trying to ignore the pain as best he could, he staggered to his feet. Above him the blinding light of Jabba's throne room was contrasted against the cheering and whooping figures screaming obscenities at him. He could hear the deep and cruel rumble of the Hutt's laughter, mocking him.

The Jedi lay about ten feet from him, not moving. Han felt his stomach lurch. Dead as they were anyway, without the Jedi to back him up he was deader all the quicker. He staggered to the prostrate warrior.

The noise of machinery whirring into life snapped his head around. As he'd feared, it was the sound of the gate being released. The gigantic metal structure pulled with terrifying speed from the ground. And behind it-

Han felt his throat dry up.

Behind the gate he could see the crouching Rancor, a huge monstrosity of claws and teeth thirty feet tall, _looking _at him. Those black pupils, tiny in that huge face, seemed to etch into his soul.

He turned in desperation to the Jedi. Shook him. "Get up!" Han cried, "Wake up, damn you!"

His next words were drowned out as the Rancor crouched under the three-quarters open gate, stepped free into the pit and roared at them. Han's throat seemed to constrict as the monster screamed.

The Jedi unfolded as casually as a man waking up from sleep.

"Had to meditate for a moment," he explained, as if it were the most logical thing in the world.

"_Your lightsaber!_" Han screamed. "_Use it! Use it now!_"

"Relax," the Jedi reassured him, as the Rancor bore down upon them, "it's all under control."

Han froze.

Corellians didn't go in for religion, much. Even if they had Han doubted he'd have been very pious. Over the years he'd learned to rely on his wits, his intelligence, and on more than one occasion a few well-placed shots from his blaster to survive.

He'd heard stories, though. Chewie kept it pretty quiet, but Han knew his Wookiee friend had a religion, one bound in honour and life debts instead of gods and demons. When a good man died _something _deserved to happen to him, that was certain.

It had only been in the semi-recent past that Han had actually ever been exposed to the Force, and the religion that had sprung up from it. A lot of hokum, from what he could make out.

He'd heard that before you died, your life flashed before your eyes.

Nothing flashed through Han's. Because at the moment when he thought he was about to be grabbed and gobbled by the Rancor, the Jedi crouched, spread his arms, and sang.

And the Rancor froze.

The throne room went _very_ quiet.

Han didn't dare move. Didn't dare breathe. He risked pivoting his eyes around to stare at his companion. The young man, eyes closed in concentration and hands sweating, was _singing _at the top of his voice.

The melody meant nothing to Han, yet its effect on the Rancor was immediate. The huge beast swayed gently from side to side, powerful claws opening and closing in rhythm to the tune.

It was dancing.

The Jedi stopped singing.

He turned to Han, and flashed a relieved smile. "That's a relief. I thought for a moment there this one had been too long in captivity to remember. They've been treating him atrociously, I'm afraid."

The Rancor stirred. Han flattened himself against the wall, making small involuntary noises in the back of his throat.

He watched as the Jedi approached the thirty-foot animal, and slapped its leg heartily.

The silence from above was truly _phenomenal_.

"You poor thing," tutted the Jedi, as the Rancor growled and yowled at the attention. "All right now?"

He glanced upward. The Rancor did likewise, then looked at the Jedi with what could only be described as a mournful expression.

"Later," promised the Jedi. "Don't you worry about those people, any more."

He beckoned Han over. The smuggler took a second to convert, and shuffled slowly forward.

"Erk?" he croaked.

"He reminds me of a Rancor I rescued on Dathomir," the Jedi said conversationally. "Except this one's a male. They're a lot smaller. Very loyal creatures, you know. They get quite fierce when they're hungry."

He gestured to the Rancor, and pointed very firmly at the closed gate to the pit.

"Destroy!" he said.

_Blam. _A blaster bolt rained down as the crowds above finally got to terms with what had happened. Han hurried forward, all fears forgotten as the self-preservation instinct kicked in on cue.

_Blam. Blam. Blam. _

Bolts showered the pit floor. Jabba was obviously not a very happy slug at the moment. A shot kicked up dirt inches ahead of him, spurring Han on to higher speeds. There was too many of them-

A shadow fell over him.

He looked up, incredulous suspicions confirmed by the sight of the Rancor standing over him, shielding both he and the Jedi from the laser fire above. The creature moaned in pain, forced to absorb shot after shot. He made himself as small a target as possible as, twenty feet above, the Rancor's immense foreclaws ripped into the huge gates like they weren't there.

When a big enough hole had been created, the Rancor forced its way through. This feeder tunnel to the pit in which the Rancor had lived for so long led to a tiny metal grille behind which stood several palace guards. More blaster fire arrowed toward him. He dived left into an alcove in the tunnel, the air sizzling inches from his face as it was vaporised by the supercharged light.

Something brushed his arm. He cast it aside, only realising then that it was a humanoid skeleton. Other body parts littered the tunnel at various intervals. _They get quite fierce…_he thought darkly.

The Jedi leapt into the tunnel, clearing the entrance by some fifteen feet. The guards began to track him with their blasters. Han gestured to his alcove, expecting the Jedi to take shelter until the Rancor itself could force a way through.

The Jedi sprang forward instead. Blue light flashed once, twice. The blasters fell silent. The Jedi turned and made a few passes with the lightsaber to widen the hole and help the Rancor struggle through the gap.

_At least he's on _my _side,_ Han thought. _For now, anyway…_

Emerging cautiously from the alcove, he jogged to the grille end of the tunnel as with one almighty heave the Rancor pulled it clean from its moorings. The animal began to tunnel its way out. Earth flew. He could see the light of a savage Tatooine day faintly ahead in the labyrinth of small passages.

They had escaped.

---------------------------------------------------------

"…_AFTER THEM, SCUM!_" Jabba finished, releasing the captain of his guards across the throne room. The dazed mercenary picked himself up and dashed off, a regiment of Gamorreans in tow.

Jabba took a few seconds to calm down. He'd been double-crossed. That was it. Some lowlife scum had sold him a defective Rancor, and this was the result. In fact the Jedi had probably been employed by one of his rivals, specifically to make him look foolish.

The Hutt made plans. They would not escape, obviously. A party of two humans and one thirty-foot saurian carnivore would be far from inconspicuous on a world with all of three major cities.

What to do with them _when_ they were captured, now…that _was _a quandary. Their deaths were mandatory, of course, but their manner of execution would be under scrutiny from the Core to the Rim. His long-practised brain ticked over one of its favourite problems.

Slow-acting poison had its plus points. The victims could be put on public display, and the effects of some such toxins were nothing short of spectacular. One, an elixir concocted from leaves of the _tyahr_ bush native to Talos Prime, was legendary.

Firstly, the victims' skin would break out in sores and rashes that burst with blood every six hours, slowly draining away the life-stream. Next the internal organs swelled to twice their normal size. After that the poison seeped into the nervous system and prevented the body from heating any extremities. Fingers and toes would drop off, soon followed by arms and legs. Lastly the remaining blood would accelerate around the body. The pressure buildup usually resulted in the victims' head being blown off.

It was a real crowd-pleaser.

Of course, for sheer visual pleasure nothing beat the parasitic deaths. All manner of bugs would find the warm bodies of humans and Rancors an irresistible morsel. As a young Hutt Jabba had accompanied many an uncle to watch a local criminal being eaten alive by such ravenous little beasts. The screams of pain and of humiliation were something to be cherished.

No…

He had it! He had it! Jabba's mouth fell open in his trademark laugh as the delicious solution came to him. He would take all three and plunge them into the mouth of the Sarlacc.

The ancient, passive predator would take a thousand years to digest them. It would mean a day out in his sail barge to the pit of Carkoon-another bonus. There would probably be considerable media interest. He even considered strapping a reinforced holocam to one of them, so he could watch the acid do its work over the next few decades whenever he felt the need.

Chuckling at the prospect, one of his arms reached absently for a small snack to complete the happy moment. His selection of prey was getting low-he'd have to get the thing refilled soon.

Decisions…

---------------------------------------------------------

Thirty feet below Han's complaining stomach the Tatooine desert lurched and spun. His brain tried again to comprehend the last twenty minutes, and failed. Part of him wished the Rancor had just eaten them both and been done with it.

"ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?!" the Jedi yelled at him over the thundering gallop. From his vantage point-tucked in behind the crest of the head and the back-Han replied by tightening his grip and staying alive.

The up-and-down motion the creature was employing was hugely nauseating and clumsy, but was covering a lot of ground. The painfully bright sand positively _flew_ past…way…down… there…

Han gulped, and dared to free a hand to clutch at his gut. This was ridiculous; he'd been through level fifteen ion storms and surfed along the gravity of black holes. A fifty miles-per-hour joyride hanging on a Rancor's neck should be nothing, right?

That damned Jedi was shouting again. Han was unable to make out the words, but he understood the mimicry well enough. _Call your ship_, the guy was saying. _Get us out of here._

Han buried himself into the leathery folds of the Rancor's crest, ignoring the stench and the moisture and the various small parasites as best he could. He placed his feet against the heaving shoulder muscles and braced himself, before reaching into his pocket and retrieving his commlink.

"_Chewie!_"

Static replied. Han hadn't seen any evidence of jamming equipment at the palace, but that meant little.

"_Chewie_," he tried again. "_This is Han. PLEASE reply. Over. Repeat; this is Han. Please reply. Over._"

Wedging the commlink into his ear, he was able to screen out the noise of the Rancor's heavy footfalls.

"…_-olo. This is See-Threepio calling Han Solo. We're receiving your transmission. Repeat; this is-_"

"Threepio," Han interrupted the droid. "We're moving out from the palace…" he risked a quick glance around the landscape and back to the receding silhouette of Jabba's lair, "… due west, I think. Tell Chewie to bring the _Falcon _in and pick us up. Now. Tell him we'll be moving pretty fast."

"_Us?_"

Han cut the transmission, unwilling as yet to reveal the exact nature of the group he was travelling in.

He waved frantically to the Jedi. Finally managing to attract his attention, he pantomimed the _Falcon _sweeping in and picking them up. The Jedi smiled, and gave him the thumbs up. Han shook his head and pointed to the Rancor. He shrugged his shoulders; _what the hell do we do with this thing?_

The Jedi began to shout an answer.

He never got to complete it.

The dune they were scaling fountained with sand. Han saw the world around him spin crazily as the huge Rancor tumbled to the ground. The shock of impact was too much for his grip on the crest; he fell from the creature seconds before the momentum would have crushed him under its weight.

Hot sand scalded him as he rolled over and over. The stuff invaded him, getting under his clothes and burning his skin. He spat out mouthfuls of the ancient sediment, each new dose roasting his tongue. Finally his flailing limbs brought him to a halt.

Battered and bruised, he lifted his head to see the Rancor locked in combat with _another _monster-

Corellian though he was, even an offworlder had heard of the Krayt dragon.

---------------------------------------------------------

Decisions…

In no mood for a game struggle with a resisting morsel, Jabba selected a particularly docile specimen. He slobbered in anticipation as his stubby fingers grasped its cool skin and brought it up to that three-foot long mouth which fairly bisected his head. As the helpless prey passed down his foodways Jabba's tongue coated it with mucus and saliva, before it was finally swallowed.

His eyes bulged.

The thing hadn't tasted right at all. His tongue sang with the indignation of the strange flavour. It was almost as if…as if the food hadn't been organic at all.

That was impossible, surely. Jabba prided himself on his paranoia - he had his snack bowl regularly checked for any and all known poisons and toxins. The last time had been an hour ago, just before Solo and the Jedi and the thermal detonator had shown up-

-_ thermal detonator_-

There wasn't time to do anything about it. There wasn't time for one last curse, or one final threat, or even a bellow of rage at what had been done to him. A Hutt had a fantastic digestive system. The acid-

"_Uuuurp_," said Jabba the Hutt, before exploding.

---------------------------------------------------------

The _Millennium Falcon _sped in low and fast over the desert.

"Hurry, Chewbacca!" Threepio's prissy tones worried from the back of the cockpit. The droid had entered one of his more lucid phases, much to everyone's relief.

A blinding flash illuminated the cockpit, and was gone. Chewbacca shook his head to clear the dancing spots from his vision and flew on, uncaring. Threepio, by nature a little more inquisitive, did his best to peer out of the small windows.

"That looked like an explosion!" the droid exclaimed. "I _do _hope it wasn't near Captain Solo."

Chewbacca growled a quick negative. His displays told him the epicentre of the blast had been Jabba's palace. He filed the information away for later investigation. Right now Han was in trouble.

"There!" Threepio cried out in triumph, gesturing with a newly-reattached metal arm to a point in the desert. "I can see Master Solo, and…" the droid was silent for a moment. "…and…_hurry!_"

Chewie kept the _Falcon _at full throttle, and thumbed for pilot control of the lasers. A light told him the underside blaster was extended and ready for use. It was a smaller-scale weapon than the huge quad guns, but at this range he couldn't risk hitting Han.

Chewie saw his friend for the first time, lying injured in the sand barely twenty feet from the raging battle between what looked like - no, surely it couldn't be - a _Rancor and a Krayt Dragon_?

The Wookiee wasn't about to let them fight over the privilege of who got to make Han a snack. He aimed the blaster and fired.

---------------------------------------------------------

"No!" Han screamed as the _Falcon _roared by overhead. _Dammit, Chewie, _he thought. The Rancor had just been establishing dominance in the tussle. Now the beleaguered pet hissed in pain as a volley of blaster shots impacted on its left arm and shoulder.

A movement on the horizon caught his attention. What looked astonishingly like a huge fireball was spiralling into the desert air, from the direction of Jabba's palace. Could it be?, Han wondered. Could that vile slug finally have perished?

Could he be free, at last?

"Han!"

It was the Jedi. He was limping a little and holding his right arm. Han speculated what he himself must look like at this time. "Call off the _Falcon_. The Rancor can vanish into the desert. It's us who need rescuing."

"Chewie's on it," Han said.

The Jedi nodded, satisfied. "Quickly. Jabba may have dispatched a few squads before he died."

The commlink paused on Han's lips. "You...?" he repeated, not daring to believe it was true.

"Bad diet."

Han felt like taking on the Krayt dragon himself. The Hutt was gone. His bounty would disappear once news broke across the galaxy. No doubt most of Jabba's former subordinates would either be killed or simply vanish into the shadows. He had a clean slate, after all this time. He could start again. He-

"Chewie?" he called. "We're not in danger. Stop firing. Land as close as you can and pick us up."

His commlink buzzed. "_Understood, Master Solo._" Threepio sang happily.

The Jedi stirred. "Threepio...?" he whispered softly, as the _Falcon _banked and began to turn above them.

Han frowned. "Yeah. You know the model?" he asked, as they hobbled up the nearest sand hill together.

"A long time ago," the Jedi replied.


	14. Hand & Fist

**Galaxies Apart**

**Thirteen**

The _Privateer. _State-of-the-art electrochemical stimulatory response laboratory. Fully equipped and pristine gymnasium. Treadmill, on which the latent gravity could be adjusted to make the going tougher, and a viewing lounge-cum combat simulator second to none.

After two days on Dagobah, Luke Skywalker never wanted to see another tree, another rock, another swamp again.

He sat with his back against Yoda's hut, sweat steaming off him in great clouds, his chest rising and falling. They had just been for a…well, who knew how many miles run. He could swear it had been yesterday when they set off. He had climbed trees. He had leapt across rivers, rivers that had huge great beasts within that thought nothing of rearing their heads and taking a leisurely snap at a passing Jedi.

He had done all of this with a three-foot-high Jedi Master attached to his back and shoulders, asking him questions, testing his knowledge, posing him philosophical and ethical dilemmas. Several times Luke had wondered which would give out first – his legs, his lungs, or his temper.

The little sage was currently occupied in rustling Luke up some Dagobah cuisine. Given the odours and the limited ingredients around, Luke was taking every opportunity to delay this task from completion.

"You must have felt it, too," he insisted for the fifth time. "You're a Jedi Master."

Yoda was stirring the soup mixture placidly. "Felt it I have," he admitted after a pause.

"We _are _being watched. I knew it."

Yoda paused from answering long enough to taste a portion of the 'soup'. He hummed in satisfaction, the verdict obviously positive. The soup struck Luke as the sort of goo out of which his ancestors had probably first evolved.

"She is close," Yoda added quietly.

"It's a woman? You can tell that?"

The Jedi Master continued, still not turning from his cooking. "Of course. Tell us many things, the Force can. About this one, especially…"

Luke closed his eyes, abandoning his weaker senses as Ben had taught him. His Force-presence struggled to establish itself; with an effort he managed it, feeling like a firefly next to a star in the company of Yoda.

The forest was teeming with millions of tiny life-signatures. Luke screened them out as Yoda had taught him, searching for the more complex trace elements only left behind by sentient life.

"Yes," he breathed. "Yes. I see her. She's…" his face registered surprise, "…a Force user. There's-"

"-something else. Yes, quite correct are you," Yoda confirmed before Luke could speak the words. "Heard of her kind, I have."

The woman was approaching. Luke tensed. Her mind was prepared for combat. "Who is she?"

Yoda shuffled toward him, holding three steaming bowls. Luke's mouth opened to ask the obvious question, but something in Yoda's countenance stopped him. A little to his own surprise he retreated from the window. Moving gingerly to avoid yet another bump on the head, he found a soft patch of floor and sat down.

The bowl was placed in his hands. He frowned at Yoda. "What are you going to do?"

Yoda's ears curled. What this involuntary physical reflex meant in terms of his particular species Luke could only guess at.

"Let her in," Yoda replied. He gestured with a hand and the front door to the hut swung open. "Nothing to fear have you," he called to the chirping, burping forest outside. "Open my door is. Please, come."

Luke tensed, ready. Yoda sat and said nothing.

The play of light inside the hut changed. Someone was making their way to the door, someone with a confident stride and a slim yet deceptively powerful frame.

He sent out a greeting through the Force, only to have her mind recoil from it, and leap back snarling. Dumbfounded, he felt himself brushed aside, rejected by her. He realised that she was not remotely interested in him, but in-

"Yoda?"

"Found me you have," Yoda nodded, as she reached the frame of the entrance, still partially shrouded. "Come."

Mara ducked under the door, and entered the tiny living space.

Luke had never seen anyone like her.

Her red-gold hair was wound in a tight, military-style bun sat atop her head perfect except for a single strand, which drooped down her pale cheeks, seemingly her one concession to femininity. Her pert lips were set into a thin line. Almost unconsciously he found himself following the contours of her features, fascinated by the efficiency she displayed everywhere.

She was wearing a one-piece combat jumpsuit whose colours happened to be those most common outside. A holstered blaster lay at her side, compact and deadly.

No lightsaber…

Ignoring Luke, she addressed Yoda directly and succinctly. "My name is Mara Jade. I am the Emper-"

"Work through you he does, hmm?"

She glared at the world, and particularly the squat Jedi Master. "-the Emperor's Hand," she completed in a regal tone, "here with a personal message from Emperor Palpatine himself, to be given to you and you _alone_."

Luke drew himself for a stinging riposte-

"Deliver your message," Yoda said, calmly but firmly.

Mara appeared to Luke to pause for a moment. "Fine," she said finally. "Emperor Palpatine demands that you-"

She stared down with an intensity of scowl so strong Luke was surprised the bowl didn't shatter. The clay pot remained fixed under her nose, steaming and bubbling.

"Soup?" said Yoda.

---------------------------------------------------------

Morning on Sluis Van.

Grand Admiral Thrawn was dressed already, Captain Pellaeon noticed. His hands ran quickly over his own uniform. Gilad Pellaeon was a stickler for neatness; he'd roared many a young scamp of a Lieutenant into wide-eyed submission for an errant collar on deck.

Pellaeon didn't do so to enjoy the power trip. He genuinely _cared _about the appearance of his ship. Truthfully, it was his way of trying to come to terms with the idea that he had been made second-in-command of an Imperial Star Destroyer, the backbone of the Empire. The symbol of its authority.

And if he found _that_ hard to believe – how long would he need before he came to terms with being executive officer on the most powerful ship in the galaxy…?

The Death Star was so big and so close it didn't quite register properly in the mind. It was staggering. That something so immense could have been constructed and built by men and droids amazed him.

Pellaeon had been born on Corellia, in a quiet part of a noisy world, into a family with a long line of Imperial tradition and a similarly long line in attending military funerals. Pellaeon had been unswaying in his determination to sign up and keep that tradition going – to the extent of lying about his age so he could join as a cadet at the tender of 15. He was desperate to join up, but equally determined to survive. His parents had deserved one less funeral to attend.

They had died just four years ago, in a speeder accident on Coruscant, where his family had relocated whilst he was still a boy. The Empire had given them an honorary military service, as a thank-you for providing so many fine young officers.

Pellaeon's brothers had been there. They had sat together in a modest cantina the night after the funeral, drinking together for the first time in years, and for all they knew with military postings being the way they were, for the last time in years. They had sat, swapping stories and remembering.

That simple act of kindness by the Empire - the funeral had been stunning - had guaranteed six men's total dedication for the remainder of their lives.

Sure, he'd heard the stories. Hadn't everyone? An unexplained body count here, an asteroid field there…the rumours flew of Imperial brutality, a new one every other day.

Pellaeon was no fool. He'd worked under and over people who were capable of such things. He knew some of the stories were true, accepted there were maybe a lot more that had went unreported.

The thing was…Pellaeon _wasn't _capable of doing such things. He would never tolerate it from his subordinates and he'd refuse to serve under a superior who did it. Vader included.

He firmly believed that if enough good officers stuck through, the Empire could eventually jettison such undesirables. So he worked onwards and upwards, mouth shut and eyes open.

When his reassignment details had arrived, Pellaeon had sifted through the Imperial archives for all references to this Thrawn he was going to be serving under. At first he'd been unable to understand what he was seeing – a non-human wearing the uniform of a Grand Admiral? The Emperor's views on non-human races were well known.

Gradually, though, he'd begun to understand why even a humanist like Palpatine had made an exception. Thrawn was a genius, of the first order. His battle records, his decorations for victories were phenomenal.

Pellaeon had wanted to dig a little deeper. He was sure that Vader's records were similarly overwhelming, and the prospect of being executive officer to someone like the Dark Lord of the Sith had chilled him.

He had made enquiries, accessed some of the things said about Thrawn by his crew and peers, called up his hobbies and personal history. The results had been fascinating. Here was a Grand Admiral who moved among his crew boldly, stopping to talk to the lowliest technician or ensign with impunity.

Thrawn had been recorded handing out commendations on the spot in the face of failure, being able to see past his desire for victory and recognise good work. And then there was the art business – by all accounts, Thrawn based his observations on species almost solely on the basis of intimate study of the species' artwork.

It sounded crazy. And yet he repeatedly invented new battle formations and field tactics in the heat of the moment, who had used the oldest trick in the book and won.

He was looking forward to serving under him on the _Palpatine_. Especially when he'd read the dossier supplied by the Empire on the Ssi-ruuk, and had realised that for the first time, the Empire hadn't had to create the impression a certain set of aliens were inhuman monsters.

With their horrific 'entechment' technologies, the Ssi-ruuk actually _were_…

---------------------------------------------------------

"Ready?"

Wedge nodded, tapping his headset communicator in a gesture that had as much to do with nerves as it did with procedure. "Ready to go," he confirmed to Winter, starting the X-Wing's engines. "Check?"

His Squadron reported in, one by one. Rogue Squadron. He kinda liked the name, though in truth 'Suicide Squadron' would have been a lot more damned accurate.

The eight ships quivered on the pad. He tasted excitement again. The old sensations were flooding back, as usual. He wondered how spies and Admirals could stand not being here, right in the firing line.

_Yeah, Wedg__e_, he thought to himself, _I'll bet they cry themselves to sleep every night over it. _

He took a deep breath. This was it, then. Months of planning, all bottlenecking in this one little moment right now. The next half an hour would decide whether the Alliance was to re-emerge from the ashes of itself or sink back and remember him as another brave, foolish martyr.

_Wonder if my statue will be __handsomer than I am. Probably will, even after the birds have been near it…_

"Rogue Squadron, you are _go _for launch. Repeat: go for launch. Good luck, guys."

"Loud and clear," he signed off, pushing the flight stick forward. The X-Wing rose gently into the morning air. To his left and right seven X-Wings pushed themselves off the concealed Rebel launchpad. When all were airborne Wedge took the lead and they began the high-speed approach to the shipyard complex.

"Keep those S-Foils closed until I give the order," he transmitted, though all of them knew it. All seven acknowledged tightly, though they knew he knew they knew. It was what you did, to take your mind off things at times like this. Like the rapidly growing yards, for example.

Like their target.

And like the TIE fighters screaming on an intercept course, dead ahead.

He closed his eyes and sighed. They'd been hoping for a clear run right into the yards. Oh, well…

"Looks like we'll have to do this the hard way," he transmitted. "I count ten TIEs, not even any cute little Interceptors. Nothing we can't handle. Pick your targets. Stay alive."

The acknowledgments came back. Wedge's hands tightened around the controls.

This was it.


	15. Feint Hope

**Galaxies Apart**

**Fourteen**

Thrawn reached out a hand. "Captain Pellaeon. I look forward to working with you."

Pellaeon shook the hand offered to him, taken aback slightly. "Isn't that supposed to be _my _line?"

The Fleet Admiral smiled. Pellaeon found himself staring at how the glowing red pupils in his eyes sparkled at such a moment, and realised then that this really _was_ a member ofanother species he was dealing with here.

"Your reputation precedes you, Captain. I look forward to serving with you."

Pellaeon admired his calm. Thrawn was about to make a speech in front of the assembled Death Star construction workers - all two _million _of them - and various high-ranking Imperials. If what Pellaeon had read on him was true, Thrawn would hate every moment of it and produce a masterpiece nonetheless.

Thrawn paused on his way to the rostrum. He glanced back at Pellaeon, who snapped to attention.

"Aren't you coming along, Captain?"

"...of course." Pellaeon said, covering his surprise.

He hurried after Thrawn, gut churning. He didn't mind the odd public appearance, but the thought of standing in front of two million people...

At least he wouldn't have to speak to them.

"Keep it simple, Captain. Dawn of a new era...great challenges ahead...I'm sure you know the sort of thing."

"Yes, sir." Pellaeon said obediently.

They walked on. The regular _thump…thump…_ of Pellaeon's footfalls on the metal walkway abruptly became extremely erratic.

"You want me…" Pellaeon kept his voice under control with difficulty, "to _talk _to the crowds?"

Thrawn's attention never wavered from the doorway in the distance, the portal that was approaching much too rapidly in Pellaeon's slightly panicked opinion. "It may be an idea for you to acclimatise yourself with this sort of duty, Captain. As executive officer of the _Palpatine _you'll have to deal with an extraordinarily large chain of command. It will be your job to filter down the daily reports from a crew complement of almost one million into those worthy of my limited time and attention."

_He's testing me already_, Pellaeon realised. Well, he wasn't going to be found wanting. Quaking a little perhaps, but not wanting.

"No problem, sir."

"Excellent, Captain."

The doors slid open.

Below the small and heavily shielded platform, guarded not only by deflector grids and forcefields but by half a legion of crack troopers to all sides, two million people stood in the Main Square of the Sluis Van Shipyard complex and cheered.

Surrounding the two tiny figures high into the morning sky of the planet were ships of all description, some in various stages of construction, some fully-fledged Imperial cruisers and even a few Star Destroyers. Their guard of honour for the stately ascent into Sluis Van orbit.

He could hear the high-pitched whine of the gigantic construction droids at their work on the Empire's future vessels of conquest.

He froze. He wasn't imagining things. There _was _a noise. A long scream which sounded for all the world like-

"_Down!_" he hollered, and pulled Thrawn to the cold surface of the fragile rostrum.

Eight X-Wings roared past, incredibly close. As Pellaeon hugged the duracrete for all he was worth he felt close enough almost to touch the Alliance ships. Laserfire strafed where they had stood mere moments previously, peppering the rostrum.

From below, he heard the unforgettable sound of two million people becoming one enormous, panicked animal. There would be quite a few trained Imperials down there, of course, but the overwhelming majority of the assembled crowd were technicians and engineers - civilians, not soliders.

And right now they were doing what civilians do best when confronted with danger - they were trampling the hell out of each other running in every direction to escape.

_How did this happen? _he thought, beside himself with rage. _How did we get so careless as to allow the Rebel Alliance to gatecrash today, of all days?_

Another high-pitched whine restored his faith somewhat; he watched TIE fighters fly past, a veritable swarm of them, all on intercept courses with the swiftly retreating X-Wings.

He got back on his feet. "Fleet Admiral, we should get you to cover right away," he said urgently.

Thrawn ignored him. He walked to the edge of the rostrum and looked down the two hundred feet or so to the carnage going on below. Pellaeon frowned. "Sir…I _really _think we ought to get back inside. If those X-Wings bank and turn we are-"

"They're not coming back, Captain," Thrawn replied, "we're quite safe."

He looked up, fixing his attention on the X-Wings, attempting desperately to navigate to safety through the huge shipyards, the swarm of TIEs in hot pursuit. "Ackbar..." he said softly.

With that, it was Thrawn himself who turned and grabbed Pellaeon by the shoulder, pulling him along as he set off at a run back into the command tower, back the way they had come.

"Make haste, Captain," Thrawn grunted. "We haven't much time."

"Sir...?"

"This wasn't a random assassination attempt. This was a diversion, and a perfectly executed one at that. Whatever the Rebels are up to has nothing to do with either me or you, I'm afraid, though I'm sure our deaths would have been a nice bonus. What matter a Fleet Admiral and his second-in-command when you have an entire shipyard to wreak havoc in…"

He turned his attention northward, to the dominating presence in this or in any other shipyard.

"…and the biggest target in the galaxy to aim at."

---------------------------------------------------------

Wedge threw his X-Wing into a steep dive, flicking the autopilot switch as he did so. The automatic systems would gradually and safely right the ship, giving him a few vital seconds to operate the _second _set of controls in his cockpit.

Nine months of planning…and this tactic was the best they'd been able to come up with. He was trying to do this with a mechanical detachment, trying to tell himself that it was their only hope, the Alliance's only hope. It wasn't entirely working. Wedge felt sick to his stomach. No matter how you squared it, he and Rogue Squadron were going to be responsible for this.

Eight X-Wings had lifted off from the launchpad back in the forest. Yet only seven of them had been piloted. For all intents and purposes, however, and certainly in the eyes of any pursuers, all eight X-Wings did indeed have someone guiding the flightstick.

The Alliance had gone to amazing lengths on this one; a scan of the robot X-Wing would reveal not only a real Artoo unit, but a humanoid controller radiating body heat and taking in oxygen. The phantom even transmitted radio messages.

As Wedge activated the remote, the other X-Wing, until now on full autopilot, began to accept his course corrections. He had a copy of every cockpit readout, and a holocam signal broadcast from the cockpit of the second craft. As such he was able to fly the ship as if he were sitting in the chair himself.

Wedge closed the other ship's S-Foils. The remote X-Wing leaped and surged forward with the added acceleration, leaving behind its TIE pursuers. Wedge's own Artoo unit _bleeped _a warning that he had gained a tail.

In the seconds of control he had remaining Wedge sent the necessary course corrections, locked the X-Wing down then returned his attention to saving his own life.

After a few gut-churning turns and spins he spared a glance down to see how the X-Wing was doing.

It was, as he'd suspected, right on target.

_Gods forgive me_, he thought.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Sir…?"

The helmsman's tenuous tones carried somehow over the chaos that currently passed for bridge operations on the Star Destroyer _Jurisdiction_. Hanging low in Sluis Van's thick atmosphere was something the mile-long starship had never been designed for.

Though he would never admit it, Captain Alari Binyameen had rather enjoyed seeing the Alliance show up. Until that point he had been having one of his headaches. Speeches and ceremonies did not agree with his solider's constitution.

"Yes?" Binyameen replied.

"An X-Wing has broken off from the rest and is heading this way, sir," the helmsman informed him.

Binyameen turned in his command chair to face his communications officer. "Notify the 91st TIE squadron to lock in an intercept course and engage the Rebel with all speed."

"Aye, sir," the controller confirmed, already transmitting the necessary codes.

"Squadron contacted, sir. They're changing course to intercept, as you requested."

"Excellent," Binyameen said, pleased. He settled back into his chair to watch the remaining Rebels. Like every other Imperial commander he was trying to figure out exactly what was going on. This whole operation screamed _diversion_, but surely it was directed in the wrong place.

It was an open secret that there thousands upon thousands of crack stormtroopers here today, and even several commando battalions. Not to mention the abundance of capital ships in low orbit. What did the Rebels seriously hope to gain from this, apart from a swift death?

"Sir…" the helmsman piped up again, his voice having risen an octave.

"Yes?"

"The TIEs aren't going to get there in time, sir. From his velocity, I'd guess that the pilot has closed his S-Foils."

Binyameen felt an instinctual chill. "Projected course?" he demanded, a horrible suspicion forming.

"Directly for us, sir. He's going to impact the bridge in thirty seconds."

The bridge crew stirred a little. Anxiety shot through each station as every man pretended not to hear. A Star Destroyer in zero-G was a sluggish ship. In low planetary atmosphere it would be impossible to move in that time.

"All turbolasers. Fire," he instructed.

The forward batteries opened up. Star Destroyers, however, weren't meant to be accurate to snubfighter level. They were designed to repel attacks from cruisers. They would be lucky to score a hit in time, and everyone knew it.

"How close are the nearest capital ships?" Binyameen asked.

"Within shield range, sir. If we raise shields now we'll cripple four Star Destroyers and three smaller cruisers," the helmsman was grave, "they'll all most likely impact on the surface."

_Right on top of the Death Star's repulsorlift generators._

An impact of that magnitude would destabilise the entire system, and bring an object with the mass of a large moon crashing down on the surface. There would be devastation right across the planet.

He'd underestimated the Alliance. This was a good plan. It might even have worked, had the Empire staffed their ships with cowards. They didn't, however, and Binyameen felt a surge of pride at how his crew was performing.

"Continue firing," he said, "Reroute all available power to the turbolaser batteries. Use as many firing patterns as you see fit."

He took a short breath, as the X-Wing appeared on the bridge viewscreen for the first time, rocketing toward them at an unholy speed. The _Jurisdiction _shuddered beneath him as she let fly with as many shots as she could. He watched lance after lance of green fire stab at the suicide vessel.

Watched as they missed, one by one. It was a _very _small ship, wasn't it?

He'd actually been given a scenario like this in his last few weeks of training. Caught between a rock and a hard place, with his only chance of survival putting the lives of other Imperial ships and officers at risk. Now his thoughts were the same as they had been back then: _The choice has been taken from them, but it remains with us. We choose them to live. _

The X-Wing kept growing. Binyameen took a last look around his ship, at his bridge crew. "Well done," he said, loud enough for all to hear. "Well done, all of you."

---------------------------------------------------------

Pellaeon watched in horror as the X-Wing, travelling at several times the speed of sound, scythed through the _Jurisdiction_'s nerve center. The ship spouted flame. A great shudder, visible even from this distance, thudded through the superstructure. The ship began to simply fall from the sky.

He and Thrawn had been shepherded to a makeshift control room, which until the attack had been the holocontrol room. It was through a holocam now that Pellaeon witnessed the fiery death of one of the Empire's most legendary ships, and one of her finest Captains.

He understood the _Jurisdiction's_ sacrifice, of course, but that made the sheer cowardice of the Rebel tactic no easier to stomach. He knew the Alliance had been desperate, but suicide runs against defenceless ships...

The Star Destroyer ploughed into the Sluis Van surface, a plume of flame and debris arcing high. Thousands of people would be caught up in that blast.

"Repulsorlift banks are holding steady," a technician called.

Despite himself, Pellaeon couldn't help but feel some small measure of relief.

Thrawn, he noticed, had stopped watching the _Jurisdiction _and instead was staring intensely at a holocam feed showing the other X-Wings retreating back into the forest. When the _Jurisdiction _had been impacted, the remaining X-Wings had managed to pilot an escape course around the falling ship, one that the pursuing TIEs hadn't been able, or willing, to match.

"It's over," Pellaeon said, numbly. The other officers in the room shared his relief. The Rebel ships had gone. The entire yards would now be on high alert, flooded with stormtroopers, patrolled vigilantly by TIE squadrons. Most importantly perhaps, the Empire's best commando troops would by now have boarded the Death Star, ready to repel any attack.

So why did Thrawn stare still over the shipyard, his breathing no more than a whisper, his hands bunched into fists? Why were his shoulders hunched and his brow furrowed in deep concentration?

"Fleet Admiral…?"

The Admiral turned to face him, his face a mask of concentration. "Something is very wrong, Captain Pellaeon," Thrawn said slowly, as a squad of troopers crunched past outside. "Very seriously wrong."

"Shall I order that we be transferred to the _Palpatine _right away, sir? Once we're aboard, the Death Star will be ready to launch."

"It seems we'll have to forgo the speech."

"I can live with that, sir," Pellaeon assured him.

---------------------------------------------------------

"How're our tails looking, Rogue Five?" Wedge asked, his X-Wing barely escaping the foliage below.

The reply came hissing back, "No show yet, Rogue Leader. No-" there was a short pause, "-wait, I have them," a low whistle sounded across the frequency, "...looks like just eleven squadrons or so."

Eleven squadrons. Wedge felt honoured. He wished he could have stuck around for the fight, but sadly he had a pressing appointment with the rest of his life which he was loathe to break. "On my mark, Rogues…" he began, thumbing the necessary switches.

Only one of the X-Wings had been _fully_ remote. However all of the ships possessed the same target identifier countermeasures, and all of them had highly advanced autopilot algorithms. Wedge ran a hand over the X-Wing's panels, glad it wasn't his own personal craft he was going to lose.

"Mark!"

As one the seven remaining pilots ejected from their ships. Wedge struggled for consciousness against the sudden shock of the searing wind and the five or six Gs this manoeuvre produced. His ejection couch was built for space deployment, and so was equipped with four tiny retrorockets on the back and one on the base. It was the base thruster which would fire now, arresting his fall _way_ too close to those-

"_Oooff_!" he croaked, the air driven from his lungs.

-trees.

Wincing in pain, he spared a glance to see how his ship was doing without him, and grinned as the small fleet of TIEs screamed past in hot pursuit of five robot X-Wings. Would they bother to check the remains for biological matter? He hoped not.

The _Jurisdiction _hadn't raised her shields. Binyameen had refused to suffer a lapse in concentration. No capital ships had fallen on the Death Star. The yards were absolutely swarming with troopers. Commando troops would be pouring into the Death Star.

Wedge brushed the moist branches from his face as he ungracefully descended to the forest floor.

Somehow, they'd done it. The mission had been a complete success.


	16. Detroying A Death Star: Part I

**Galaxies Apart**

**Fifteen**

The Death Star was designed to house almost one million crew. Most of this complement, however, consisted of Imperial troops. This Death Star was intended for use as the ultimate invasion staging post; capable of housing enough of a force to storm an entire enemy world and bring it completely under the Impieral heel, with the ultimate deterrent to the native population proving to be too difficult built-in. Destroyed worlds didn't generate credits.

Merely in order to function, to have enough crew to keep the reactors running and the weapons firing, the Death Star was quite able to make do with merely a thousand or so crew. This was the number which filled it now, mostly composed of commando battalions and the top-level scientists responsible for its creation. The invasion force was not due to be added until after the Victory day unveiling.

The man who presently sat in the centre chair felt a thrill of excitement course through him. He'd been waiting for this moment for a very, very long time. Around him his associates seemed to have caught the general mood of quiet exultation. Against all expectation, against all precedent, all odds…

The commander glanced to the figure on his right, and nodded. He thumbed the communication button.

He was going to enjoy this.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Fleet Admiral. Communication from the Death Star. It's Commander-"

"Patch it through."

The screen flickered to life, displaying a lean and bearded face. Pellaeon failed to recognise the officer, though that wasn't surprising; doubtless this man was an Imperial commando, an elite spy.

"Fleet Admiral Thrawn," the officer inclined his head, "we have proceeded, as you yourself ordered, to board the Death Star. Our troops have full control of the _Palpatine_. All systems are functioning exactly the way we expected them to."

Thrawn didn't reply right away. Pellaeon shifted, confused and a tad embarrassed at this unfathomable impasse in the discussion. To his left he could hear the Admiral's breathing. Thrawn's eyes glittered.

"Anything else, Commander?" the Fleet Admiral asked.

The other man stared impudently back, seemingly not awestruck in the slightest by whom he was addressing. Pellaeon, always a stickler for protocol, began to resent this man's unabashed impudence.

"Actually, Fleet Admiral Thrawn, there is something else I must report, but before we get to that I think my associates would _much_ prefer it if-"

He nodded to someone offscreen.

"Sir!" a technician blurted out from across the makeshift control centre. "The _Palpatine _has just-"

"Raised her shields and powered her engines," Thrawn finished for him.

The technician gaped. "Yes, sir," he confirmed.

Pellaeon turned his attention back to the Imperial commander, who was obviously enjoying this moment immensely. "Well done again, Admiral," he congratulated Thrawn. "A little late, but you get there in the end, don't you?"

Thrawn ignored him. "Commodore Jurstt!" he hollered to the milling crowd instead. The officer in question, a red-faced corpulent man, stuck a head up and shouted acknowledgement. Jurstt was the overseer of Imperial activity at the yards. He was, in Pellaeon's opinion, a glorified shift boss rather than a soldier.

"Don't be a fool, Thrawn," Madine said. "If you throw your Star Destroyers at us all you'll have is a massacre, and you know it."

"A massacre like the _Jurisdiction_?" Pellaeon bit back.

Madine regarded him coolly. "I save my tears for Alderaan, Captain."

Thrawn showed no interest in joining the debate. "Jurstt," he clipped, "I want you to send a Priority One signal to all Imperial ships in orbit: Do not, repeat _do not _engage the Death Star under any circumstances."

"The _Death_ _Star_?" Jurstt repeated, uncomprehending. "What in the world are you-"

"It is now under the control of the Rebel Alliance."

Pellaeon's veins were running with ice even as his face was flushing with anger. After three years and one resounding defeat after another…the Rebel Alliance had done this? Had outsmarted the Empire's biggest security operation by _being part of it_?

"You'll never get past this sector, Madine," he spluttered, wishing he could reach into the screen and throttle the man here and now.

Madine smiled. "I admit it's something of a risk. After all, we're armed with nothing more than a fourteen-chambered superlaser and few thousand turbolaser batteries. How did we ever think we were going to succeed?"

He was right. The _Palpatine _had been constructed painstakingly to be the best, the most powerful ship that ever sliced the galaxy. All of the flaws of the original Star had been carefully corrected - it had no weaknesses.

The only danger that had been anticipated was a Rebel strike while it was still under construction in the yards; the sheer size of the reactor core meant that a few suicidal pilots might just have made it through the interior. That wasn't possible now.

With this ship, the Rebels had the power to take on the entire Empire once again, to pulverise entire worlds in an instant and vanish back into hyperspace, unreachable and indestructible.

They were at war.

"Let me talk to Ackbar."

"Don't be ridiculous, Thrawn. Do you think we'd risk smuggling the best military mind left in the Alliance aboard the Death Star in the middle of an Imperial attack?"

Thrawn remained impassive. "Don't presume to insult my intelligence, Madine. Not only _would _you risk it but you _did _risk it. I hardly think that particular peril compares with the rest of your plan today. We both know you haven't got what it takes to command the _Palpatine_. You're a covert operative, not a strategist."

Thrawn's voice dropped to an almost hypnotic level. "I want to talk to Ackbar. I know what he's planning. I know exactly what he has in mind. I want to tell him that it isn't going to work…"

He took a deep breath. Pellaeon frowned at the sudden pause; it was as if the Admiral were suddenly having difficulty with what he was saying. Like he was-

"…and to discuss our terms for surrender."

---------------------------------------------------------

Standoff.

The _Palpatine _hung in orbit around Sluis Van, easily visible from the surface as a perfectly spherical aberration in the sky. It had raised itself into space an hour earlier, rising majestically on its own power. The repulsorlift batteries and gravity dampening field had to be carefully managed from the yards so that Sluis Van didn't tear itself apart with the separation effect.

It had worked. The Death Star had ascended to space gracefully and without problems. Without opposition, for that matter. The Imperial contingent had maintained an extremely respectful distance throughout.

Madine could see the Star Destroyers. In typical Imperial style the ships had arranged themselves to act like a chaperon for the _Palpatine_, to be clearly in vision but never at what would be considered an aggressive proximity. Thrawn's doing, no doubt.

Madine had heard the stories about Thrawn (after all, he _was _a spy) and he didn't like what he heard. Thrawn was everything a typical Imperial wasn't; flexible, cunning, tactically brilliant and capable of completely and utterly destroying opponents who underestimated him. Madine was in no danger of doing that.

What was he up to now? This whole surrendering business was, surely, an elaborate trick. Madine was surprised that Ackbar had even delayed the _Palpatine's _departure from Sluis Van to listen to this madness.

It was suicide, in his opinion, to expose the Rebellion's greatest hope to the Empire's greatest asset for any longer than was strictly necessary. Had he been in charge, the Death Star would have blown out of here long ago; and he'd have been tempted to wipe Sluis Van and Thrawn off the face of the universe too.

No.

He forced the thought out of his head. That was the Empire in him talking. He was a Rebel now, a man of peace and of minimum force. Ackbar had made it abundantly clear to him that the _Palpatine _would never be used to arbitrarily destroy worlds which happened to contain Imperials.

_We are not the Empire, _he had said in that gruff tone, _and we do not use their methods._

Madine had agreed in principle; after all, the murder of world after world had been what had swung him to the Rebel cause a few years back, had prompted him to make contact with the Alliance while undercover.

Over the next few months he'd quietly sounded out his colleagues in the commando corps, and had found to his amazement that the level of dissent was astronomical. People in his line of work, who were expected to get in behind enemy lines, could often find more to like amongst the enemy than their own side. He had spread the Rebel word among as many of his peers as he could - and had dealt quietly with those that had reacted differently.

With his allies secure in positions of power inside the elite units of the Empire, they'd been able to draft in Alliance operatives over the last few years. A few at a time, nothing suspicious, had gradually swelled into what amounted to an entire Rebel legion of troops _inside _the Empire, placed and ready to be activated when the time came.

That time had been nine months ago, when the Alliance had received word of the Empire's project here on Sluis Van. What had started off as a simple sabotage mission had gradually evolved into the most ambitious operation ever devised.

And it had worked.

It had _worked. _

Madine shook his head, wondering how in hell they'd managed to pull it off. If he didn't already believe in the Force he'd sure as hell be a convert by now, he realised. It was a real, genuine miracle.

"I suppose it was," Ackbar agreed, startling Madine, who hadn't known he was thinking out loud. The Mon Calamarian blinked slowly, sitting in the command chair of the _Palpatine_. A chair that just wasn't built for a member of his species.

"I still think you should reconsider this, Admiral," Madine pleaded, gesturing to the planet below. "I wouldn't trust Thrawn as far as I could hurl him. He's dangerous."

"Have you forgotten your own boasts, Captain?" Ackbar addressed Madine with his new title, "We sit encased inside the pride of the Empire herself. Surely you don't think one man is capable of doing what three fleets could not accomplish?"

Madine wasn't convinced. "If there is, it's him."

Ackbar gave a short _huff _of disagreement, his whiskers trembling. "The Fleet Admiral has simply acknowledged the situation he and the Empire are facing. They fear that we will destroy Sluis Van and them along with it."

"Are you expecting him to surrender the galaxy's biggest Imperial shipyard over to you without resistance? It's not going to happen."

Ackbar had been with the Rebellion from the start. The Empire had taken a shine to his species' adeptness at tactical analyses, and in typical Imperial fashion had exploited this trait by scooping up the youngest and most promising Mon Calamari, making them slaves and making it clear that if they didn't perform, their families and their towns would pay the ultimate price.

Ackbar himself had managed to escape from Grand Moff Tarkin (he hadn't held that title then) some years ago. The Rebellion had tried to evacuate as many of his family as possible. Five had escaped, out of a village of three thousand.

Admiral Ackbar was not renowned for adopting a lenient attitude to the Empire.

"Do not forget the purpose of this plan, Captain," Ackbar warned him, "if Thrawn is willing to negotiate, we cannot afford to pass up the chance. He is, as you point out, one of the most respected voices in the Empire, is he not?"

Madine sighed. Ackbar had been a slave in the Empire, not an officer; he didn't understand the way things worked in the hierarchy the way Madine did. "Respected, but not influential. It won't-"

Ackbar waved his protests aside. "Your objection is noted, Captain, but we have no time. Now…" Ackbar sucked a reluctant land-dweller's breath, "…let us see what Fleet Admiral Thrawn has to say."

---------------------------------------------------------

"I don't believe what I'm hearing!" Commodore Jurstt threw his hands into the air, to make doubly clear his opinion. His round, porcine face had lone passed into the realms of crimson.

Pellaeon's assessment of him was correct. Jurstt had been overseer of Imperial activity at Sluis Van for the past thirteen years, a duty which consisted of keeping to schedule, keeping workers happy. He didn't have the mind for combat.

"Then I'll say it again," Thrawn reiterated, "the Rebels have us exactly where they want us. The _Palpatine _lies in orbit with a crew of Rebel troops and fully-functioning weapons. The meagre collection of ships at our disposal will be nothing more than cannon fodder to them. This entire planet is a prime target for destruction - the strategic value of Sluis Van is immense. That they haven't yet destroyed it tells me that they haven't stolen the _Palpatine _to use it as a weapon."

"What _else_ would they steal it for?" the Commodore cried, "A battle moon engineered to produce nothing more than huge blasts of energy is hardly of much use as anything else!"

Thrawn was losing patience. "The _Palpatine _is of extremely limited use as a weapon. The ability to destroy a planet, a useful tool in winning a war? Nonsense," Thrawn scoffed, "in times of desperation, as a last-ditch gamble, the Star may be employed to stave off destruction. At any other time, however, it becomes little more than a catalyst for insurrection. The facts speak for themselves; after Alderaan, the Alliance doubled in size."

It made sense to Pellaeon. Jurstt seemed lost in thought at this revelation.

"The Emperor has failed to realise that Death Stars act as rallying calls against his own forces. Icons to inspire resentment in the masses. To him, they are castles in the sky; a living testament not to the greatness of what he has created, but to what he perceives as his own superior dynasty. They are nothing but a gargantuan exercise in vanity, a barrier against his obsolescence."

"But surely the Rebellion-" Jurstt began.

"The Alliance is full of weak-minded fools," Thrawn said dismissively. "They will baulk in horror at the mere suggestion of using the _Palpatine _to turn the tide of the war – if they did so, they'd lose the perceived moral high ground they depend upon for recruitment to their cause. What the Rebels want is a bargaining chip, a negotiation tool. Notice how my offer for discussion is leapt on by the ranking officer."

"What do they hope to gain from us?" Pellaeon interjected. "They can't expect us to surrender on the strength of one ship alone, surely."

"No," Thrawn shook his head. "But they _will _expect us to grant them certain concessions," he smiled as he said that, if a smile constituted a baring of his teeth, "say a few sectors here and there, a few slave races liberated, credits, planets, ships…the list goes on. And if we refuse they will, presumably, threaten to haul the _Palpatine _from wherever they choose to conceal it and use it to punish us for non-compliance."

Pellaeon shivered. Something was bothering him about this whole idea. He couldn't quite pin it down.

"You mean they'll be bluffing?" Jurstt frowned, trying to wrap his uncomplex mind round the concept.

Thrawn paused again. "I wouldn't place that at one hundred percent probability," he relented, "the leaders may be weak but the Empire have made plenty of enemies who currently command the Rebel military. Ackbar is a prime example. It is not a situation I would like to see the Empire in."

Jurstt mopped his brow; the heat in the control room was intense. "Then why," he choked, frustrated at this verbal fencing, "have you opened negotiations with the Rebels for precisely this to happen?"

The _Jurisdiction_. That was it, Pellaeon realised. Thrawn had said that the Rebel leadership would never descend to arbitrary slaughter…yet just a few short hours ago they had cold-bloodedly murdered over one thousand people. It didn't quite fit in, somehow.

Thrawn was about to answer Jurstt's latest inquiry when the call came through from Ackbar and the _Palpatine_. Jurstt wisely decided to trust in the Fleet Admiral's judgement.

Pellaeon wondered what would have happened if he hadn't.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Admiral Ackbar," Thrawn spoke first, "I've been looking forward to dealing with you for some time."

If Ackbar caught the possible double meaning in that apparently innocent sentence, he hid it expertly.

"Fleet Admiral Thrawn," the Mon Calamari returned. Pellaeon had heard of Ackbar, of course, the bane of the Empire for the year or so that the Rebellion had actually started to cause some problems to the Imperial machine. An astute and instinctive commander, surprisingly voracious in his battle tactics. Like Thrawn in more than one way…and so unlike him in others.

"My congratulations, Admiral," Thrawn continued in his praise, giving no indication of sarcasm, "a superb operation performed flawlessly right under our very noses. You have won the greatest of the Empire's prizes. It now concerns me to ask what you will decide to do with the power at your disposal."

Again Ackbar ran Thrawn's words over in his mind, quite visibly. "I must say I'm very sceptical of your accolades, Thrawn. It's left you looking somewhat ridiculous, has it not? The brightest star in the hierarchy has his ship stolen out from under him by the defunct Rebel Alliance?"

Had Pellaeon not spent the last day with Thrawn, studying him, he would have sworn Ackbar's words had no effect on the man. However a slight glint in those ruby eyes and a tiny adjustment in the shoulders told him differently.

"There is no shame," he lied, "in being bested by good planning, Admiral. My compliments are genuine; you can believe them or doubt them as you will - you seem to be holding most of the cards from where I sit. Regardless, we need to talk about where to go from here."

"Very well, Thrawn," Ackbar nodded briskly, "I appreciate any honesty from an Imperial. I have in my possession a list of demands from my government-" he ignored Pellaeon's desultory snort, "-which I will now relate to you. If these demands are not met then the Alliance will have to consider employing the _Palpatine _for the purpose you Imperials designed it for - namely, the arbitrary annihilation of politically inconvenient worlds."

"And the occasional burst of mining," Thrawn added.

Ackbar made a noise that spoke volumes.

"First, the annexation of Sectors 11 through to 27 and the official recognition of this area as legally…"

---------------------------------------------------------

Admiral Piett took some comfort in the thought that at times like this, at least he didn't have Vader's vague promises of death in the event of failure to deal with. Right now he had enough to worry about.

The _Executor _had received Fleet Admiral Thrawn's scrambled transmission four and a half hours ago. The immense battleship had proceeded with all speed to Sluis Van since - they'd been heading that way anyway, to officially accompany the _Palpatine _to the Victory Day celebrations.

Now though, the Death Star that awaited them at the yards would be in the hands of the enemy.

Not even the _Executor _would be able to withstand the sheer power of the Star's superlaser; one Main Stage beam would finish the Super Star Destroyer, flagship of the Empire, forever.

Ordinarily Piett would have been inclined to seek a diplomatic solution; he didn't want the most talented cadets in the military to perish in one futile conflict against a hopelessly superior foe.

That had been until he'd read the entire transmission. Thrawn had not only detailed the situation, but had supplied battle plans. Plans which Thrawn was confident would bring down the Death Star.

Having read them, Pellaeon was confident they'd be original, if not assuredly successful. Still, a superior officer was a superior officer, after all…

"One minute until Sluis Van, sir," a technician called.

"Begin the preparations," Pellaeon replied.

---------------------------------------------------------

"…the sum of thirty-four million credits to be transferred to listed accounts. As reparations for an unjust war," Ackbar explained, before continuing, "the slaves of Kessel and Gerttok Seven-"

Thrawn flicked a switch. Pellaeon frowned - nothing had happened. Ackbar went on talking.

"I've just fed the Death Star a holo-loop of us listening to Ackbar," Thrawn informed those gathered, "according to my estimations Ackbar will go on in his demands for about another minute."

This small act of deception stirred the assembled Imperials. Commodore Jurstt jerked into life, suddenly curious and hopeful. This was more like the Thrawn everyone knew. Pellaeon felt the mood.

"You _do_ have a plan?" Jurstt asked.

"Of course," Thrawn admitted, "I merely wished the risk of our actions being broadcast to the _Palpatine _minimised. Obviously our Rebel friends have quite the spy network here."

He stood.

"Gentlemen, in less than sixty seconds the Super Star Destroyer _Executor _will be dropping out of orbit. I want to give her as much protection as we possibly can - she's in for a rough time as it is."

Jurstt was already delegating. "Tell us what to do, Admiral."

Thrawn told them.

---------------------------------------------------------

From where Madine was sitting, the Imperials seemed about as riveted by Ackbar's lengthy demands as he was.

Thrawn in particular was every bit the Fleet Admiral-faking rapt attention, nodding every few seconds, head cocked to one side in intense concentration. His subordinates seemed less inclined to put on a show for the sake of politics. The middle-aged man to Thrawn's left was doing quite well, but the formidable bulk of Commodore Jurstt to his right had an unfortunate habit of scratching himself at points of emphasis.

So why, he wondered uneasily, were his undercover instincts, honed over years of dangerous missions, screaming for attention?

As usual it was up to his conscious mind to interpret exactly what they found so alarming. He studied the group intently, searching for any signals they might be communicating, or body language. Something wrong. Except for Thrawn's hollow expression and Jurstt's unfortunately obvious recurring itch, there was-

_Recurring itch_…

"_Shields up!_" he yelled, punching controls on his tactical console. Around him the bridge crew, composed of his own company and so used to obeying his every command, did as he asked. Admiral Ackbar had no such experience.

"_What are you doing?_" the Admiral demanded.

Madine pointed to the screen. "See for yourself."

Ackbar turned. Apparently oblivious to this sudden hostile gesture by the Death Star, the happy little group on the screen were _still_ listening intently.

"I don't understand…" Ackbar began.

Proximity alarms shrieked. The viewscreen changed to show the terrifying needle of the Super Star Destroyer _Executor_, emerging from hyperspace.

Heading right for them.


	17. Destroying A Death Star: Part II

**Galaxies Apart**

**Sixteen**

Phase One.

The _Executor _rejoined the sublight universe. Inside her crew sprang into action they'd rehearsed over the past few hours. The finest crew in the fleet. Piett would rather see a hundred Death Stars perish than lose this invaluable resource of young talent.

Thrawn had communicated that it would take the _Palpatine_, with her vastly improved superlaser ignition primers, around twenty seconds to charge the power required for one Main Stage beam – all that would be required to finish them off.

The Super Star Destroyer soared across the upper atmosphere at full sublight velocity, almost skating on the realms of hyperspace. The effect of this horrific speed on the ship's dampening field was severe; a high-pitched scream of protest sounded the ship fore and aft. She pressed on.

The first turbolaser fire zipped out. The _Executor _let loose with all batteries, pummelling as many of the _Palpatine's _superlaser nodes as she could, buying herself another few crucial seconds. The Death Star responded, turbolaser batteries seeing use for the first time, a barrage of fire arrowing to Vader's personal vessel.

Six seconds had passed.

The _Executor _skimmed and bounced off the stratosphere of Sluis Van. Her entire superstructure shuddered, buffeting her suffering crew. Her mighty engines roared with the strain of having to function under full drain from the weapons systems.

Inside Piett screamed course corrections to his crew, the countdown in his head occupying his entire universe. He tried not to look at the huge pseudo-satellite to his left filling every viewscreen

Ten seconds.

"_All stop! Open a channel!_" Piett hollered. The inertial dampers took a full second to compensate for the abrupt deceleration; his knuckles were white with the effort of affixing him where he sat. Shouts of pain told him others had not been so fortunate.

It didn't matter - as long as they got the message…

---------------------------------------------------------

"Commence primary ignition," the chief technician transmitted from the firing chamber. Madine listened to his steady tones and breathed thanks.

An imperceptible vibration built up in the hull around him; he could _feel_ it growing. The _Executor _would be nothing more than a huge pile of rubble, floating forlornly above Sluis Van.

Above-

"_Ackbar!_"

The Mon Calamarian didn't turn. Madine tried again desperately. "Ackbar, we're directly above-"

A voice interrupted his desperate plea. "_Attention Rebels,_" came the unmistakable plummy tones of an Imperial, "_the Executor has taken up position directly above your Rebel base on the surface. A superlaser blast, even a Main Stage beam, will fry every one of your people down there._ _Are you prepared to sacrifice them?_"

This was it, Madine realised. Ackbar had about two or three seconds to make the sort of decision that would have hard to reach in a lifetime. A choice between hurting the Empire and killing his own.

We are not the Empire, and we do not use their methods.

"Stand by," the technician warned; his final transmission before firing. Silence reigned on the bridge as all heads and all eyes turned to the aquatic alien currently calling the shots in the centre seat. The Rebellion had waited for this sort of power for years, had craved it. Madine knew that every Rebel on the surface would have sacrificed themselves gladly to see the _Executor _destroyed.

But the decision wasn't theirs. It was Ackbar's. Madine did not envy him.

"Chief Korth," the gravelly voice rumbled forth, each word an effort, "abort the ignition. Repeat, this is Admiral Ackbar. Abort the ignition. Do not fire. Do not fire."

---------------------------------------------------------

The last ten seconds had been the longest of Admiral Piett's life.

"They're not firing," he finally dared to say. The bridge crew relaxed as one. Across the ship his words carried and thousands of the Empire's finest breathed a huge sigh of relief. The Fleet Admiral had guessed correctly. The Alliance was spineless.

Piett called for order by not saying a thing, and got it without a word. Imperial discipline, he thought. "Well done, everyone," he complimented them, "but our job here is far from over."

It had only just begun…

---------------------------------------------------------

Phase Two.

The next signal was sent, and the remainder of the Imperial fleet currently stationed at Sluis Van rumbled into action. The Star Destroyers and the larger Cruisers moved into position, flanked on all sides by the smaller fighters and freighters.

The lead ship sent confirmation, and every large vessel activated their tractor beams. The focussed gravity wells lanced out and impacted upon their target.

Prathuus. Sluis Van's sole satellite, a ball of rock and ice only two thousand miles or so in diameter. Small, as moons went.

Slowly but surely, the tractor beams began to have an effect. The regular elliptical orbit of Prathuus was disrupted, incredibly slightly. And again. And again.

With each tiny tug the moon came further out in its orbit and became easier for the beams to pull. The engines of the ships, at first unable to activate with the sheer strain placed upon them by the operation, kicked into sluggish life, grew stronger.

The moon picked up speed in its new orbit.

On the flotilla surged, pushing and straining at their engines. Now Prathuus, once a lethargic moon which took fully three hours to orbit its parent, now had a rotation duration of just fifty minutes.

And still the speed increased.

Fifty minutes went down to forty, and then to thirty, and then to twenty-five. This was the threshold; the tractor beams could do more. Remaining in perfect synchrony the fleet disengaged their beams and reversed their engines, bare moments before the edge of sensor range with the _Palpatine_.

They watched as Prathuus crossed the terminator and premature light bathed it. To their military minds the satellite took on the likeness of a huge proton torpedo, streaking home.

Memories of Captain Binyameen and the _Jurisdiction _flashed through every angry Imperial mind.

The Rebels had earned their fate.

---------------------------------------------------------

Wedge grunted in satisfaction as another stormtrooper went down. It seemed his commando training hadn't been a complete waste of time after all. He was something of a crack shot on the ground, too.

They'd burst out of the forest about fifteen minutes ago. Looked like about six squadrons. Wedge wished fervently that this tiny Rebel base deserved that sort of respect. Their automated defences were seconds away from collapsing, and once that happened…

"Winter!" he called. "Two coming in; point three five!"

She pivoted, squeezing off a couple of pinpoint blasts. The stormtroopers went down with holes where their chests had been. Wedge suppressed a shiver. He thought _he _was pretty accurate, but he'd rarely seen anyone quite as good as Winter.

Dressed from head to toe in combat fatigues and armed with two E-web repeating blasters, one slung around each shoulder, she was a sight to behold. For many Imperials, in fact, she was becoming the_ last _sight they would ever behold.

Even with advanced weaponry Wedge knew they didn't have much past a few minutes left. The Rebel lines were deliberately backing off, moving slowly into the hangar bays and the escape craft contained there. His own X-Wing lay under camouflage; he itched to sit at its controls.

It wouldn't be easy escaping the Imperial network below orbit and reaching the safety of the Death Star (how strange that sounded to him!), but then you didn't get to be the leader of Rogue Squadron without being a fair pilot.

A shadow fell across the Rebels. Wedge blinked. The only thing big enough up there to cast a significant shadow on the surface was the Death Star, and that was nowhere near the base.

Rolling behind cover, he made the time to glance upward. The breath escaped from his throat. Every Rebel knew that shape.

Directly above, a huge dagger poised to strike from orbit, hung the Super Star Destroyer _Executor. _

Something was wrong up there. With the comm channels jammed, he had no way of finding out what. He resigned himself to contacting the Death Star once his X-Wing had cleared the communications blackout.

"Wedge!"

It was Winter. She crashed to the ground beside him, having just performed some eye-watering acrobatics to avoid Imperial fire. The stormtrooper lines were now only about thirty feet away, he saw.

"Hi," he said, concentrating fire on the left flank and causing the troopers there to scatter.

"Wedge," she gasped, in between blasts, "the _Executor _is maintaining a position directly between us and the Death Star. While it's there Ackbar can't fire the superlaser without frying us too."

Wedge nodded. So that was it. "Then the sooner we evacuate the better," he reasoned, pulling her back.

"You don't understand-" she began.

He heard it then. The whine of servos. The ebb and flow of huge motors, rhythmic, hypnotic, deadly.

Approaching them from all sides…

Six AT-AT walkers crashed into the clearing, with typical Imperial precision. Their turbolasers, huge and lethal, lanced across the foliage.

Screams followed each shot. To his left a Rebel lurched into the battlefield, aflame and hysterical with terror. The stormtroopers cut him down, almost an act of mercy.

Almost.

"_Rebels_," an Imperial voice sounded, "_throw down your weapons and surrender. You will not be harmed if you pose no threat. I repeat, surrender now or we will obliterate your base entirely._"

Wedge glanced down the Rebel lines. He saw no-one throw down their weapons, no-one surrender. Sometimes, though, at times like this heroism could only be taken so far before logic dictated that defeat should be accepted and the risk of further losses stopped.

Sometimes.

But not today.

"_Rogue Squadron?_" he called. Seven heads separated from the rest. Wedge jerked his thumb back, toward the hangar bay. The heads nodded, comprehending instantly.

"What are you going to do?" Winter asked, as he moved to join his Squadron.

"Whatever we can."

---------------------------------------------------------

Phase Three.

There were many ships lying dormant in Sluis Van. Such is the nature of shipyards, after all. Another commander may never even have considered the possibility of using these sleeping vessels in battle.

Not Thrawn. On his arrival he'd requested an inventory of every ship currently stationed here. Partly out of curiosity and partly out of security concerns, but no less deliberately.

None of the ships, either those under construction or those awaiting refit, could take part in the actual battle itself, of course. They were vulnerable and would have lasted only a few seconds against a Star Cruiser, not to mention a Death Star.

However, Thrawn's tactical mind saw a way in which one particular designation of ship could have an influence without even leaving the shipyard dry-dock.

"Activate," Jurstt commanded. He'd been quickly won over by Thrawn's masterplan, and now was doing everything he could to make sure that what would surely be Sluis Van's finest hour came off.

The technician nodded. "All mechanisms are active, sir."

"How's the interaction? Are they complementing each other as anticipated?"

The technician paused, before nodding again. "I read an eighty-four percent rate of multiplication, sir."

Jurstt hissed his approval. He turned to another subordinate, a grin plastered across his pasty features.

"Inform the Fleet Admiral that his plan is working perfectly."

---------------------------------------------------------

Madine could not believe what he was seeing. "Sir, we have another problem," he informed an exasperated Ackbar, unable to erase the incredulity from his tone.

When the Admiral wanted clarification, he shrugged. "It's the moon, sir. It seems to have abandoned its former orbit altogether. I'm reading massive seismic distortion across the surface, probably caused by a concerted pull from tractor beams. It's heading right for us, sir."

"Size?" Ackbar demanded.

"Two thousand miles of pure rock, Admiral, travelling at forty-six thousand miles per hour. If it hits us, even with the shields up…we're dead."

"Time to impact – one minute," the helmsman said.

Ackbar nodded. "Charge the superlaser for Main Stage fire. Prepare to target the moon."

"Aye, sir," the superlaser technician confirmed, "charging laser."

Madine shook his head. "That's not going to do it. A Main Stage beam will break it open, yes, but the bulk of the mass will stay on the same vector. We'll have twenty large fragments impacting instead of one huge piece. Either way you're still looking at complete mutual destruction."

"Helm - back us off. Full sublight," Ackbar ordered.

Now it was the helmsman's turn to sweat. "Sir, we're running on a skeleton crew. The sublight engines take time to fire. We won't-"

"Lightspeed, then!" Ackbar thundered.

"Aye, sir," the helmsman replied. He laid in the co-ordinates with a practised ease. The navigational computer accepted the new course immediately. He pulled the lever for hyperspace.

Nothing.

The young human began to sweat. He performed the routine again, closed his eyes and pulled the lever.

A faint shudder spread across the bridge, a groan from the ship itself. The panicked man tried again.

"Lightspeed _now_!" Ackbar ordered. They could all see Praathus bearing down on them.

"I…don't understand it, sir," the young man gasped, "it's like we're too close to the planet. But I read us as well outside the maximum extension of the gravity well for hyperspace."

Madine ran frantic scans, found the helmsman was correct. Over the increasing anxiety of the bridge crew he forced himself to think clearly.

Why couldn't they jump to lightspeed? The most common reason was veering too close the gravity well of the planet. _But we're clear of Sluis Van. That's not it._

The only other possible source for a gravity well was Interdictor Cruiser, a ship generated an artificial gravity well, used by the Empire in combat to prevent enemy ships from going to hyperspace, to hold them in sublight so they could be destroyed or captured. _No Interdictor Cruisers in obit_, Madine thought, _but there will be-_

That was what Thrawn had done. He'd activated the Interdictors being constructed in the yards below, and targeted their gravity wells into space. With enough of them overlapping, they had projected a gravity well strong enough to prevent the Death Star going to hyperspace in time to escape Praathus' impact.

"Twenty-five seconds."

It was ingenious. It was typical of the man. It was also, unless a miracle occurred, going to mean the final, absolute destruction of Rebel Alliance.


	18. Destroying A Death Star: Part III

**Galaxies Apart**

**Seventeen**

The hangar bay contained X-Wings. A-Wings. Y-Wings. V-Wings. Wedge knew every type of ship instinctually; he'd clocked up enough flight time in all four types over the past few years. The grace and power of the X-Wing…the speed of the A-Wing…the payload of the Y-Wing…the advanced weaponry and manoeuvrability of the V-Wing.

Vital of the Rebellion each one of them, an individual marvel of engineering that was a joy to fly and a deadly weapon in the right hands.

And then…there was the Speeder.

He hated Speeders. Sure, they had an efficient design with a big viewscreen and a fair top speed. They also had the turning prowess of a duracrete girder in quicksand, and acceleration comparable to that of a medium sized and inexpertly aimed puddle.

They were unique in that they were the only ships in the hangar bay that weren't designed for combat. In their original designation Speeders were reconnaissance and rescue craft. Which was why, to compensate, each had been retrofitted with the sort of armour that would have put a Star Destroyer's hull to shame.

Only the protection a Speeder enjoyed could have endured the pounding the AT-ATs were dishing out with their turbolasers. _Just_, he amended, as a shower of electric sparks rained in the cabin, legacy of another glancing blow by the lumbering beasts ahead.

Speeders were also the only two-person snubfighters; pilot and gunner were required to get any kind of accuracy with the onboard weaponry. OK, so it meant he didn't have to worry about avoiding death _and _striking back, but Wedge _liked _that worry. He didn't like the fact that he was having to rely on an inexperienced gunner to stave off the attack.

Below him, a few stray stormtroopers never had time to scream as they were systematically incinerated. Wedge realised the shots had originated from his Speeder.

"That's good shooting, Konnik," he called behind him to where his gunner sat.

A familiar laugh answered him. "Konnik's with Dack this time, Chief. I figured you could use a little extra help."

Wedge almost crashed the Speeder. "_Winter_?"

As she confirmed her identity again he saw her squeeze off another few shots, each one finding an Imperial target. Her gunnery was actually succeeding in pushing the stormtrooper companies back. He grinned. Suddenly, having to fly his least favourite ship didn't seem so bad after all…

An explosion to his right startled him from that train of thought. He watched in anger as a fellow Rogue went down under a hail of AT-AT fire. Much as they were enjoying some limited success against the troops, the Speeders were doing precisely squat damage to the AT-ATs.

"We're getting hammered by those things," he called back.

"Wedge," she called back, "what are our secondary weapons?"

He shook his head. "No major firepower - just tow cables and harpoons. Speeders are search and rescue, the occasional recon mission. We had to weld the blasters on manually."

A silence from the aft told him she was thinking. "What about using the harpoons and cables on the legs of the walkers? Tie them up, get them to crash under their own power?"

He threw the Speeder into a steep banking dive, barely managing to drop below another volley. The idea was crazy, untested, unproven, and would take a group of pilots with incredible skills to pull off.

"Good plan," he called back, and used the next four-second lull in the fighting to transmit the plan to the rest of the Squadron, grateful that the communications blackout only applied to orbital transmissions.

He selected the nearest walker, and came in from the back, decreasing speed until he was almost parallel with the leftmost pair of legs. "Firing," Winter said. Wedge had little doubt about this part, and was not surprised to see the harpoon impact the nearest leg.

Now came the tricky bit. Working out protocol for this even as he prepared to perform it, Wedge figured that the best way would be to slow the Speeder almost to a crawl and use the standard brakes to pull it gently around the AT-AT; thereby keeping it out of reach of the twin turbolasers on the 'head'.

Or…you could _increase _speed to maximum, and use the airbrakes to turn the Speeder on each corner of the turn. Which would mean turning with next to zero visibility and reaction time, and effectively racing the tracking systems of the turbolasers around the walker.

Wedge felt like grinning again. He wondered what the point of even debating the matter was, when he knew only too well what he and the rest of Rogue Squadron would invariably opt for.

He gunned the throttle.

The tow cable spun out behind him, tracing his erratic path around the walker. As he moved into his second circuit the cable took up the slack and wrapped itself tightly against the legs of the AT-AT.

The walker attempted to move forward and found itself curtailed. Wedge moved into his third and last circuit, the turbolasers tearing holes in the surface milliseconds behind his racing Speeder.

Leaning on the controls one more time he hit the right airbrake, banked sharply and cut an exit path between the front and back legs, having to avoid the snare of his own cable.

"Let her go!" he whooped. Winter complied.

The walker's computer propulsion systems, not built to accept that the gargantuan machine could _ever _be stopped, dealt with this unexpected problem by increasing the power. The walker shuddered, and Wedge's heart leapt two foot higher as the cable stretched under the strain, close to breaking point.

Close, but not close enough. The cable held, and as Wedge watched, the entire AT-AT ponderously toppled forward into the jungle, crushing an entire squad of stormtroopers in the process.

He hollered for all he was worth. The impact should serve to completely destroy the walker's computer guidance systems. The entire network would go down - including the damage control systems.

Winter strafed the prone giant, and was rewarded when after only a few shots it blew spectacularly.

As quickly and as decisively as that, the tide of battle had turned. With the ground troops confused and disorientated by this unprecedented disaster, the Rebel ground forces pressed forward with renewed vigour.

Wedge watched as the remaining five walkers failed totally to deal with their acquisition of a spinning, biting piloted parasite. One by one, they too succumbed to the fate of the first AT-AT.

What had started as a hasty tactical retreat had ended, unbelievably, as a most unlikely triumph for the Rebellion. Wedge doubted anything like this had been seen for years.

A hand reached over and squeezed his shoulder. "Great flying."

"Not so bad yourself, ace," he replied, trying to stop himself from blushing and failing miserably. "So…what the hell do we do now?"

It was a valid question. Though reinforcements would assuredly arrive for the Empire soon, it seemed somehow inappropriate simply to continue the evacuation where they'd left off. Wedge had almost forgotten what victory against the Empire felt like, and he itched for more.

"This is Rogue Leader to Base One," he transmitted, "requesting new orders, Base One. Repeat-"

"_We hear you, Rogue Leader_," the reply came instantly. The voice didn't sound particularly thrilled. Something else was wrong. "_We've just detected a focussed gravity well from the shipyards. It's targeted at the Death Star. We can't warn them._"

"Gravity well?" he repeated incredulously. "Why in the worlds would the Imperials want to stop the Death Star from leaving?"

"_Because they have less than three minutes before Prathuus hits them._"

The words washed over him for a moment, before he was able to digest them. He hard Winter gasp behind him at the news. Almost without thinking he turned the Speeder toward the distant yards, opened up the throttle to maximum.

"Why can't they just use the superlaser?"

"_They haven't seen it yet, Rogue Leader, and we can't get word to them through the blackout. By the time they do detect it, it could be too late. Proceed to the yards and destroy the source of the gravity well._"

"That's an affirmative, Base One," Wedge replied, and sent the orders to the rest of Rogue Squadron. "Looks like this might not be over yet," he called back.

"It's Thrawn," Winter said, sounding despondent. "I knew it. I knew he would change the rules."

"Well, he didn't count on this little ambush coming unstuck, did he?" Wedge pointed out, "so that's _one_ mistake he's made today. Looks like he's not as omniscient as he'd like us to believe," he grunted, charging the lasers, "we just have to make sure that he pays for that small oversight."

He glanced at his readouts. "We're going to reach the shipyards in about fifteen seconds. I want you to search for the source of that gravity well. It could be anywhere, and we don't have much time."

She was silent for a moment. "Wedge - Base One said the Death Star can't get to hyperspace. Don't you think that sounds like the work of an Interdictor Cruiser?"

Choosing his approach vector and checking on the status of his wingmates, Wedge considered this. "I certainly don't know of any other ship capable of generating a gravity well…but those shipyards are absolutely huge. Miles across at their narrowest point. There's no way to tell…" and he trailed off in realisation, for this was Winter, the woman with the eidetic memory.

The woman who'd been stationed here for the past two months.

"You know where they are, don't you?"

Winter nodded. "I took a quick glance at the schematics for this place the day I finally gained access to Commodore Jurstt's office. The Interdictor Cruisers are in the south-south-west sector. Change your approach heading to…" she paused, calculating, "…one-three-eight mark nine."

He did so, unable to help himself from wondering precisely how a woman like Winter had managed to 'gain access' to Jurstt's private sanctum. The rest of Rogue Squadron were duly informed of the new co-ordinates; he saw them bank to follow him.

"I wonder where-" he began, before ten TIE Interceptors screamed into vision. Satisfied, he shut up.

---------------------------------------------------------

Pellaeon went over the plan again. It seemed so simple, when taken in its component parts; yet when it was digested all at once it was so staggering in scope that he found himself dumbstruck with the audacity of it all.

How to destroy a Death Star in three easy steps. Granted, Thrawn had enjoyed certain advantages he might not have elsewhere. The Alliance's reluctance to fire on their own, the moon had been ideally suited, the shipyards had exactly the right facilities and so on.

Could Pellaeon himself, then, have come up with the same plan?

He knew what the answer to that was.

Pellaeon regarded the man of the moment, who currently was sitting placidly, awaiting results. The latest figures placed the moon's impact at about a minute. One minute before the final defeat of the Rebel Alliance.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Incoming!" Wedge hollered over the whine of the Speeder's complaining airbrakes.

TIE Interceptors were good little ships, as TIEs went. They had excellent blasters, a good top speed, a small size, good turning ability and were even equipped with marginal shields.

Pound for pound they were the vast superior of the Speeders, and ordinarily would have made short work of the seven craft.

However, the Rebels had one huge advantage. T

They were Rogue Squadron. The Imperials weren't.

"Scratch one!" Winter whooped from the aft, as an Interceptor bloomed to flame.

As Winter began to engage another Interceptor, aided by a cunning drop-feint-roll from Wedge, she felt almost sorry for the Imperial pilots, hopelessly outmatched by their maverick Rebel counterparts.

_Almost_.

Wedge nodded, satisfied. The three remaining Interceptors were being looked after by three of Rogue Squadron; he had little doubt about the outcome of that particular battle.

Which left him and the other three Rogues with a clear run at the Interdictor gravitational relay.

"Ready back there," he warned Winter, "we're going in full throttle. Try to take out the power couplings on the north-west tower."

"I see them," she confirmed.

He prodded the Speeder into the ideal approach, and let her own systems keep the nose even. The tactic worked perfectly; he was able to watch laser blast after laser blast streak out. The damn things were ray-shielded, so it would take four or five really good hits to knock them out.

"Wedge-"

"I see them," he cut her off, grimly. Arcing slowly toward them were five proton torpedoes.

"I was afraid of this," he admitted. The Imperials had finally figured out that they had several nearby ships with fully operational weapons systems. All it took were a few remote control commands…

"Winter," he said tightly, "do you see that Star Destroyer skeleton to starboard?"

The torpedoes, growing in size by the second, caused her to pause in her answer.

"Yes…?" she replied.

"Harpoon it," he ordered. Sensing her reaction, he added, "Trust me, Winter. Do it."

Tethered to the immense scaffolding, the Speeder shot past it, tow cable unreeling at alarming speed. Ahead, a partially-skinned Star Destroyer hung suspended above a moderate-sized repulsorlift bank. Wedge angled their nose downward.

"Target the repulsorlifts and _fire_!" he ordered.

The bank, totally unshielded, withstood only a few direct hits before erupting in a cloud of flame.

Above them, thousands of tons of Star Destroyer found itself unsupported. Aft first, it began to fall.

Behind them, five proton torpedoes closed to within three seconds of impact.

"Wedge…!" Winter croaked. The Speeder's interior darkened, a huge shadow encompassing it.

_Who needs airbrakes_?, Wedge thought, and threw the Speeder into a sharp turn. With a Star Destroyer acting as a pivot, the Speeder was able to shoot an escape curve at an otherwise impossible speed.

Equipped with no such advantage, the pursuing torpedoes took a fatal second too long to do the same.

Caught astern in mid-fall, the embryonic Star Destroyer blew apart.

Now free of all pursuit, Wedge was able to angle the Speeder back on course for the relay. By this time the remainder of Rogue Squadron had eventually caught up; all five ships fired together.

He held his breath. They might have time for another pass; they might not. It really needed to go right-

_Boom_.

-now. The billowing flames accelerated with alarming speed. He hit the throttle again, jinking the Speeder up and left to avoid the bulk of the explosion. A quick survey reassured him that the rest of the Squadron had likewise managed to elude oblivion. Over the sound of Winter celebrating he craned his neck to look upwards. If they had been too late…

---------------------------------------------------------

Crix Madine couldn't pull away from the viewscreen, couldn't help but watch Prathuus bear down-

_And the Death Star moved. _

Madine didn't have time to think. Neither did Ackbar. Neither did the helmsman. Fortunately all of their instincts were screaming the exact same thing. The helmsman felt his hands fly across the consoles. The course was accepted. He pulled the lever for all he was worth.

The _Palpatine _stretched, flared and was gone.

Five years after it should have happened, the Rebel Alliance had been saved at the last possible moment.


	19. Fall From Grace

**Galaxies Apart**

**Eighteen**

"_How much?!_"

"Three hundredweight," Han repeated. "And let me tell you, that much corrosite doesn't just drop into your lap. Which is just as well, because it would blow a hole in whatever continent you were on at the time if it did..."

He took a long draught of something relaxing and considerably intoxicating and relaxed. After the Rancor and Jabba, sitting in the _Falcon_'s communal area with some re-imagined mynock tranquiliser solution was feeling scandalously good.

His Jedi friend didn't seem to be enjoying himself so much. He was ignoring the rules of Han's Happy Hour by ingratiatingly engaging Solo in conversation every few minutes.

Not that there wasn't a few thousand questions Han would have liked to ask the youth himself - but his every attempt at subtle interrogation had been sidestepped so neatly Han was starting to suspect the young man had training in politics.

The Jedi whistled. "I thought you were bluffing at Jabba's...!"

"I never bluff," Han lied.

"Master Solo, sir!"

Han sank back a little into his seat. "Great," he said softly.

The droid bustled in a few moments later. Threepio was acting the part of thrilled housekeeper. To be fair, it had been years since they'd had anything approaching a guest on the ship.

"Can I get either of you anything?" Threepio gushed, "We appear to have copious amounts of Sullustan brandy in storage..."

Han skewered the droid with one look. "If you touch," he began, slowly and dangerously, "the Sullustan brandy I will disassemble you and rewire you in the shape of my choosing. Do you understand?"

The droid's stiffened. This time the movement had nothing to do with mechanical failures. "Well I never...of all the rude..." he huffed, and stormed off as fast as his servo motors would allow.

As he left Han noticed that the Jedi was scowling at him. Seemingly Han's dismissal of Threepio hadn't gone down well.

"I didn't think there was any need for that."

"Last time Goldenrod took the notion to serve me drinks he broke three bottles of before we stopped him. Stuff ain't cheap."

"Threepio _broke_ three bottles?"

Weird. To hear the Jedi talk you'd think he knew the droid personally. Han briefly went over how they'd had to re-create Threepio from Artoo's counterpart files, how they'd managed to 'obtain' a blank unit.

Apart from occasional, short questions - the answers to which lay outside Han's knowledge about droids - the young man just sat there, taking it in. Han abruptly tired of talking about Threepio. He wanted answers.

"Where do you want me to let you off?"

That got a reaction. "I suppose you're wondering who the hell I am."

"You suppose right. I'm not accustomed to strangers I've never laid eyes on risking their hides for me."

_Though there's something maddeningly familiar about you…_

The Jedi sighed, seeming to realise that the time had come. Han felt himself tense. Just what he was going to hear here? Just who _was _this?

As always, Chewie seemed to read his mind. The Wookiee came striding in from the cockpit and sat down between Han and the Jedi, growling low and softly. You didn't have to speak Wookiee to get the message.

"Before I tell you what I'm going to tell you, promise me you'll hear me out, right to the end, before you ask questions. No-" the Jedi interrupted, seeing Han about to respond, "listen, Han, please. Because I guarantee you that you're not going to believe me, whatever you say now."

Han spread his hands. "You risked your hide for me. That buys you at the very least some listening time. I'll shut up for as long as you keep talking."

He sat back.

The Jedi began his tale.

---------------------------------------------------------

Dagobah had been a home to Yoda for many, many years and home to Luke Skywalker for much, much too long.

He was, to put it mildly, glad to finally be seeing the back of it. The _Privateer_ felt more like home than the muddy, murky swamps had for the duration of his stay. He was looking forward to training with the seeker balls again, rather than the more…unorthodox methods Yoda had been so fond of.

Running with the little alien strapped to his back he could get used to, along with most of the physical trials. Yoda had been pleased with his progress in these, insofar as Luke could tell.

But the psychological teaching...the philosophy...Luke had tried, he had really tried, to get his head around the Jedi lore Yoda was trying to impart upon him. From what he could discern, it seemed that the Jedi worked incredibly hard to maintain powers that under almost all circumstances they were completely forbidden from using.

And then there had been the cave...

He had emerged from that pit of blackness pale, ashen, convinced he'd been gone for days. Only ten minutes had passed outside. Yoda had said nothing, asked nothing, only taken him back to the hut and made him soup which he had gulped down, grateful to have anything warm inside him.

They had never spoken of what Luke might have seen within, and if Luke had his way they never would.

But the cave wasn't the problem. He'd come to Dagobah to train under Yoda, achieve the rank of Jedi Knight. And yes, so the planet and Yoda for that matter hadn't been what he'd expected. But he had trained nonetheless.

Until yesterday. Until her.

For some reason, Yoda had been more excited at her mere presence than he'd shown since Luke had dropped from orbit. He had listened to her pre-prepared speech from Palpatine about going back to him and had accepted, which had surprised her and Luke in equal measure.

Accepted on one condition. That he was allowed to make a journey first. Jade had 'consulted' alone for an hour or so and then assented, on her own condition that she was allowed to come along. Yoda accepted. And that was that - without so much as a request, Luke had been shanghaied into ferrying the Jedi Master and the Emperor's Hand on this mysterious errand.

Luke had prodded for clues; after all, he reasoned, if they were using his ship he had a right to know where they were headed. Yoda had told him nothing.

Visually inspecting the _Privateer's _hull prior to takeoff, Luke's senses sang.

She was watching him.

He'd never felt a mind like hers, never encountered such a coiled and alert personality. He got the feeling she didn't like him, but treated this as an honour; most people, he suspected, didn't even register to her enough for her to form an opinion of them.

It would be an interesting trip.

"I will need to store my vessel in your cargo hold," she said, before lapsing back into expectant silence.

"No problem. Once we're in orbit you can dock."

"Very well."

She walked away. Luke sagged in relief without fully realising he was doing so.

An hour later, two engine trails condensed in the sun. Luke piloted the _Privateer_ into orbit, troubled even as Yoda sat beside him, as placidly beatific as ever.

Before this trip was over, he vowed, he'd find out why Yoda was so reluctant to give answers.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Endor," said the Emperor.

Ston frowned, his perma-smile cracking a little under the strain. His white fingers gripped the official aide book a little tighter. Ston had been the Emperor's most trusted assistant for a long time.

A _record_ time, in fact.

"Ahm…I'm really not sure if Endor is on any of the Imperial lists, sir," he ventured, trembling slightly, "normally protocol dictates that Victory Day takes place on a world in the Core…"

Palpatine ignored him. He liked that. Being ignored by the Emperor was much more preferable than having his full and complete attention. "Endor…is significant," the Emperor said eventually. "It will be Endor."

"The Grand Admirals have voted unanimously for Imperial Prime in the Core sectors. _However_ the expansionist unions have been making some serious waves for holding it outside the Core; in fact they want it held right here in Corus_eeerrrpp_-"

He couldn't breathe. He was forced to stare into those terrible yellow eyes. "_Endor_," Palpatine repeated.

Ston hurried from the room. Palpatine had forgotten he existed even before he had picked himself up from the floor. Mara Jade's latest data was giving him a lot to think about.

Yoda had no sooner heard of the Emperor's fears than he was rushing off to some secret sanctum of the Force. If that was the case, why had he allowed Mara to accompany him on the trip?

It was only too tempting to underestimate Yoda, but it would be fatal to do so. He would sense Mara was in contact with her master through the Dark Side, and yet he was happy to have her come along with him. Did that mean this place wasn't so important after all?

After all, the Empire had been systematically hunting down all such places for a very long time - surely it was unlikely they'd missed anything of great significance.

Mara would do her job, like she always did. What unsettled him much more was the unexpected presence of Skywalker. Since the destruction of Yavin IV, Palpatine had been visited with nightmares, usually with Luke Skywalker in a starring role.

Destiny swirled around him, just as it had done with his father. Yavin IV shouldn't have happened; Palpatine knew that. What made matters considerably worse, though, was that the Force knew it too.

Unless he was wrong, the Force would adapt to the new scenario created by the time discrepancy, and would fight to reassert the correct order of things. The Force would be with the Rebel Alliance. As powerful as he was, even he could not stand against the power of the Force.

Or could he?

Could one man oppose the will of the Force and win? The Jedi lore said no. But the Force had been bypassed by a new concept - time travel. It could rewrite the events that the Force set in motion. And there was always the Dark Side; that half of the Force which longed to bring chaos.

Endor, now. Endor was important. His prophecies of old, before the blackout three years ago, had spoken of a great and final confrontation at Endor, with the fate of the galaxy in the balance.

He'd seen the second Death Star there too; seen himself residing within. Glimpsed the Rebels, Skywalker and Solo among them. The dead princess too.

If his plan was to work, he'd have to adhere to parallel events in the original timeline as closely as possible.

He'd have to contact Sluis Van, and give Fleet Admiral Thrawn on his…the Emperor smirked…new command. It should be entertaining.

---------------------------------------------------------

"My Lord," Thrawn said. Behind him Commodore Jurstt and Captain Pellaeon stood to attention.

The huge holographic representation of Palpatine's skeletal features flickered. "Fleet Admiral. The time has come to congratulate you on your official assumption of command of the Empire's finest-"

"My Lord, the Death Star has been stolen." Thrawn interrupted.

For several seconds the only sounds were the minute _fzz _of data transmission and one human shaking.

Palpatine's face was terrifying to behold. "The explanation for this, _Fleet Admiral_, had better be phenomenally good."

Thrawn remained almost supernaturally placid. "If you seek to assign blame, then it must be placed on my shoulders alone. I was responsible for the safety of the _Palpatine _as soon as I accepted the post. As for how it was accomplished, it was a combination of excellent tactics and carefully orchestrated infiltration of the Imperial operation. Executed with perfect synchronisation by Admiral Ackbar."

The cowl of the Emperor's hood failed to hide the pure rage contained in those scarred, pale features. "Am I to understand you allowed a notorious Rebel commander and histroops aboard my flagship? You admit to this freely? Were you so blind as to allow the miserable, pathetic _Alliance _to outthink you, with the resources of an entire shipyard at your beck and call!"

Pellaeon made to step forward to his superior's defence, ready to speak up on behalf of an officer who had come interminably close to destroying the Death Star.

Commodore Jurstt did it first. The fat man was sweating profusely and most probably scared out of his wits, but he was prepared to stand behind Thrawn when it mattered. Pellaeon nodded in approval. A glorified shift boss, but perhaps a good man after all.

"Master," he gasped, terror the catalyst for every word, "you don't know the full story. Fleet Admiral Thrawn could have done nothing about the theft. But he came within a whisker of destroying the Death Star and crushing the Alliance. His improvised tactics were nothing short of stunning, sir. In my opinion, this man is the best hope we have of neutralising this new…Rebellion threat…."

His speech tailed off.

There was a horrifying silence.

Pellaeon felt a pit open in his stomach as he watched those huge holographic silhouettes of pupils slide slowly over to where Jurstt stood. He saw Thrawn's shoulders slump for the first time.

Jurstt merely blinked furiously, uncomprehending.

_No_, Pellaeon thought desperately, _please. Don't shatter my illusions about the Empire. He didn't mean any disrespect - can't you see that? He's a decent officer, damn you._

"Commodore Jurstt," the Emperor said.

"Yes, Master?"

"I don't believe I asked for your opinion."

And there was a _snap._

Jurstt's body seemed to take an eternity to hit the floor. Even from six feet away Pellaeon could see how violently the neck had been broken. Shattered on a whim from a man thousands of light-years distant. Cold-blooded murder, nothing more. He closed his eyes, and felt something inside him die too.

"I _do _choose to blame you, _Commander _Thrawn. You are hereby demoted and reassigned. I will personally see to it that you never see command again. Consider yourself fortunate that I choose not to go further."

The transmission ended.

Pellaeon was frozen to the spot. Thrawn was not. He moved to Jurstt and rearranged the man's body into something resembling human. Pellaeon watched him do it.

Thrawn had just been demoted to such a level that Pellaeon was now by far his superior officer. _To hell with that_, he thought.

"Sir?" he said at last.

Thrawn turned. Pellaeon's heart chilled; whatever expression of rage the Emperor had just assumed, it couldn't hold a candle next to Thrawn's white-hot fury. The man seemed about to explode.

The mask of madness vanished. "Relax, Captain," Thrawn assured him. "You have nothing to fear from me. It would seem that you also have no reason to refer to me as _sir_."

Still in shock, Pellaeon found he could not tear his eyes from Jurstt's broken body. "Why?" he asked.

"Never forget what you have seen here today," Thrawn replied. "My career is now over; yours, however, will go onwards."

"Of course," Pellaeon said softly.

Thrawn shook his head. "How could I have been so blind? How could I have thought his motives were anything other than they have always been?"

"Sir?" Pellaeon asked.

"Captain, there is no need for-"

"Yes there is," Pellaeon cut him off.

"I may need your help," Thrawn told him.

As Imperial officers raced to them, having finally seen the body of Commodore Jurstt, Pellaeon nodded without hesitation.

"You'll have it," he said.


	20. The Death Of Luke Skywalker

**Galaxies Apart **

**Nineteen**

Time travel. Even in the days of peace, during the scientific glory of Old Republic, time travel had never been explored. The Jedi Council had never allowed it, had quietly put a stop to any thoughts of experimentation in the area.

They said that the Jedi Code was a religion – if that was true, then time travel was tantamount to blasphemy. Faith in the Force as a guiding light for all sentient beings was the central tenet to the Jedi Code, something that would be totally destroyed by the notion that one person could, given the right scientific equipment, _rewrite _the destinies that the Force had assigned.

It was, he knew, ultimately down to the Empire. Palpatine's dictatorship had proven something of a shot in the arm – or when required, head – for science. Researchers suddenly found themselves with a remit to push the boundaries of technology that had remained static for centuries under the Old Republic's stability.

As paranoid as he was powerful, Palpatine salivated over the thought of technological superiority over his would-be rivals – as the construction of the Death Star had proven beyond doubt.

Frontiers of galactic knowledge had expanded at a rate unheard of in generations. Had the Rebellion completed the cycle by successfully overthrowing the Imperials, the entire galaxy would have reaped the rewards of highly accelerated - and highly immoral - studies.

That hadn't happened.

Yoda himself had been indulging in a form of time travel for hundreds of years – he, like all of the more powerful Force adepts, could enter a trance and receive visions of the future. However, visions were all they were – snapshots, difficult to see. _Always in motion is the future_, he had told Luke during one of their training sessions.

Now it seemed the past could be motion also.

How had it been done? Yoda had a suspicion about that, a suspicion he was dragging Luke Skywalker across the galaxy to confirm.

When, he wondered, when was the exact moment when the real timeline, that endorsed by the Force and stable, had been replaced with this improvised reality? A reality where the Force was reduced to the role of bystander as individuals crafted their existence from the wreckage of their destinies?

What was he, as the most senior Jedi Master alive, going to do about it? Attempt to undo the damage, try to restore the galaxy? On the surface it seemed the only option and Yoda could not avoid the inescapable fact that, artificial or not, this reality had been in existence for five years.

In that time, countless life-forms from innumerable species across the cosmos would have been born. By restoring the former timeline, he would surely be killing off many millions of these new lives.

Who was to say if that was not mass murder?

"Master?"

Yoda opened his eyes, and let their focus settle on his newest apprentice.

"You asked to be notified when we reached the co-ordinates. We just did," Luke informed him. The boy was always bursting for information and reluctant for truth.

"Good," he said, walking forward from his quarters on the _Privateer _to the bridge of the small ship. Luke tagged along behind.

"More co-ordinates?" he asked, sulkily.

"Yes," Yoda confirmed.

"It'd be much faster if I did it. I'm quite the navigator, you know, and this part of space is pretty-"

"Nevertheless," Yoda cut him off, and left it at that.

A word here and there was all that was needed. If the Jade woman was to be coming along, and he knew she must, he was not going to make tracking them easy for Palpatine. Multiple disguised encoded approach vectors was the best way to delay that process.

Skywalker itched with impatience beside him as Yoda punched in the new numbers to the navicomputer. Yoda kept his placid exterior as unflappable as ever with an ease he didn't feel.

More than anyone, Luke had been thrown off course by the changed timeline; he could sense as much, could have done so from two sectors away. The boy was conflicted, ridden with guilt and anger to so deep a level that Yoda privately had doubts about whether he could ever turn away from them. Yoda was inescapably reminded with every twitch, every glance that Luke sent his way of his father at the same age.

The galaxy could ill afford another Darth Vader. But unless Luke turned from that path, that was exactly what it was destined to get.

---------------------------------------------------------

"It's a little hard to know how to tell this chronologically…"

"Forget chronologically. Just start at the beginning and finish at the end." Han replied.

The Jedi smiled a little. "Here goes…"

---------------------------------------------------------

Two Death Stars had been destroyed by the Rebel Alliance. The Emperor had been assassinated – by his own lieutenant, Darth Vader, even as the second Death Star succumbed to the desperate Alliance attack at Endor. In the galaxy that emerged from those years of war, the Empire found itself driven back. The Rebel Alliance reborn as the New Republic.

The shattered remnants of the Jedi Order began the slow process of rebirth also. After the chaos and the catastrophe of the Empire, Force adepts were understandably somewhat reluctant to announce their skills, many preferring to hide their talents for fear of suffering the same fate as many of their parents and siblings had. The legacy of Order 66 lingered long in the memory.

Somehow these secret Jedi had to be reached, and assured that in the New Republic their gifts would be welcomed.

No amount of New Republic propaganda, diplomatic efforts or specially established organisations dedicated to spreading the new Jedi-friendly attitude to the entire galaxy could have had an impact to bring the new generation of Jedi to the light like the legend of one man.

The man who almost single-handedly had brought the Empire to its knees. It was common knowledge (incorrect, but common) that he had taken on the Emperor _and_ Darth Vader simultaneously and killed both.

The man, the legend, was Luke Skywalker.

The story of Luke's triumph, and of his close friendship with similar figures of adulation - Han Solo, Princess Leia, Chewbacca - spread across the galaxy, fast becoming a staple tale in taverns and homes everywhere.

A modern, substantiated legend, it was what persuaded many hidden Jedi that finally the time had arrived for them to retake their place as the guardians of peace and justice.

Seven years after the victory at Endor, Luke Skywalker decided that the time was right to create a Jedi Academy where would-be Knights could learn the ways of the Force in peace and seclusion on the peaceful world of Yavin IV.

Over the years the Academy's enrolment expanded from only a handful of hopefuls to a plethora of potential Jedi, attended by members of over many different species, its facilities improving with each passing year.

As the years passed, past pupils began to return, teaching on aspects of the Force that they themselves had previously excelled in. The New Republic began to reap the dividends of its investment as the talented graduates proved to be invaluable assets.

Unfortunately the Academy proved attractive not only to the righteous and the noble, but those whose motives for better grasp of the Force were less for the betterment of the galaxy and more for furthering of their own ambitions.

In some cases these selfish traits were recognised and eradicated by the teachings and the training received at the Academy, and the individuals emerged changed in their ways, able to serve the New Republic as Jedi Knights.

This was not always the case.

One man managed to pass through the Academy, through the intense study and interpersonal relationship that entailed, without his true motivations being discovered.

He was a handsome, devious man who soon learned to adapt his Force talents to his own advantage. He was able to create an air of trustworthiness and integrity around himself of such pervading persuasiveness that strangers took an instant like to him.

He found himself consistently placed in positions of power, which he abused with subtlety and skill that no suspicion was ever attached to him. His talents were so extensive that he was soon mooted as a successor to Luke Skywalker. His dabblings in politics were of such note that some whispers had him as a potential Presidential candidate.

Not everyone was held in his thrall. A few of his peers at the Academy held their own suspicions close to their chests. They had lived and trained beside the man for four years and had gained an insight into his spirit.

Though keen to communicate their unease at their famous classmate, any expression of doubt were misconstrued as jealousy at the adoration showered on him from all sides.

For that reason, the four friends kept their misgivings private and determined that they would all enter the New Republic as Jedi Knights, partly because they wished to protect the system, and partly because this was also the career path that he had chosen. All four did not particularly relish the thought of allowing him to go unchecked.

One of the four, who accepted a post in the highest levels of the diplomatic corps, uncovered lost Jedi records long thought to be destroyed in Palpatine's purges. The records spoke of a mysterious location in space simply referred to as Site Zero.

When it was examined and authenticated by the newest experts on Jedi legend back at Yavin IV Luke Skywalker decided to lead a mission to find this place. To the dismay of the four friends, he made the obvious choice for his second-in-command aboard the specially-commissioned Star Cruiser _Hope's Flame_. The four friends, desperate to prevent this potential disaster, wrangled berths aboard the ship at the eleventh hour.

Twenty days into the mission two of the four were dead.

The _Hope's Flame _had stopped to resupply in the Corellian system. The two had been travelling back to orbit from Corellia's surface when six proton torpedoes blew their shuttle to smithereens in the skies above Corellia's capital city.

No-one ever discovered who had launched the torpedoes. Disgruntled local smugglers were blamed. The firing site was found the next day, in the middle of a huge forest outside the city, abandoned.

Luke Skywalker mourned the loss of two of his brightest and most promising students. He considered whether to turn back in order to bury them, but eventually was persuaded not to. The two bodies were frozen in carbonite instead, awaiting their return to Coruscant, and the _Hope's Flame_ resumed its journey.

The remaining Jedi agonised over their next move. They were completely unable to find any evidence of conspiracy in the deaths of their friends, but each was privately sure that their friends had been murdered.

When the _Hope's Flame _arrived at the co-ordinates given in the Jedi text they discovered something truly extraordinary.

There, surrounded and shielded by nebulae through which sensor signals could not penetrate, was a huge and ancient space station. A truly mammoth construction almost the size of a Death Star, composed of a central sphere attached to two gigantic sails, looking for all the world like a gigantic TIE fighter.

The Star Cruiser docked. The station's computers seemed in perfect condition. As the boarding party moved along the huge corridors to where the life force emanated the lights followed and droids _whirred _quietly in side passages, going about their business as if on a crowded ship.

Master Skywalker seemed overcome with excitement at the grandeur and splendour of this discovery. His most trusted advistor seemed likewise taken by the significance of this find. The two remaining friends were caught up in the excitement. The computer experts the _Hope's Flame _had brought along began to spread through the installation in an attempt to learn more about its purpose.

They had assumed that the station had been built sometime during the tenure of the Old Republic. Not so. Carbon-dating analysis had shown that it had been constructed _at_ _least _one million years ago.

Ten days after they had arrived, Luke had gone into a meditative trance. He had emerged and vanished alone into the bowels of Site Zero, only to return a day later with an instructional holocron, a portable holographic image device.

When activated, an image of a human appeared. The human introduced himself as Revan. What he had to say was nothing short of astonishing.

Site Zero was designed not to house inhabitants or to serve as a weapon, but as a generator. The immense rectangular 'wings' it sported had been built to create, channel and control one thing.

The Force.

The enormous 'wings' of the station were filled with midichlorians. Never before had the microscopic beings been able to be sustained outside of living tissue; their symbiosis with all forms of life in the galaxy and their connection to the Force was unquestioned.

And yet here, untold trillions of midichlorians were being kept alive without any biological assistance. It explained why the station felt so heavy with the Force; they had all felt it on arrival.

The Force-energy created and stored by the wings was redirected and supplied across the galaxy elsewhere in the station.

Finally they had an answer to the question of how was the Force was present where life was not. Site Zero acted as a regulator, spreading the Force evenly throughout the cosmos, ensuring it was a constant and stable power.

That wasn't all.

With proper manipulation, Revan revealed, the station could be used to focus a large amount of Force in a small space, creating a source of power which made a Death Star's superlaser pale into insignificance.

This vortex, however, was not a destructive blast. It could be moulded and shaped into a gateway. Just as Site Zero's primary function was to create Force and distribute it to the entire galaxy, this portal used the power of the midichlorians to take ordinary matter and connect it through the fabric of space itself to any other point in the heavens.

And its capabilities did not end there.

Space and time were bound together at the most infinitesimal of levels. By exploiting this bond, the station could potentially open a doorway not only to any point in space…but to any location in time. Past _or_ future.

Revan pleaded with those who had activated the holocron to do what he had done upon discovering it. To resist the temptation to use its powers, and leave it be. Leave it to do what it was designed to do, and never reveal its location or its secrets to anyone else.

Skywalker had understood now why that first Jedi expedition had left well alone; the potential for good was staggering, but if Site Zero were to fall into the wrong hands...its potential for evil was limitless.

While the implications sank in, Luke ordered everyone off the station and back to the Star Cruiser, to give him time to deliberate.

That night, all hell had broken loose. Bodies were found on the Star Cruiser. A shuttle was launched, unauthorised. A shuttle carrying a single passenger to the station.

Luke had almost collapsed at the shock of the betrayal. When he was fully calm again he resolved to deal with this himself, apologising to them but ignoring their pleas that he reconsider his decision to go alone.

"This is my mistake, my folly," he had said firmly, "and it is my responsibility to set it right. May the Force be with both of you."

With that he'd gone, taking a second shuttle.

The crew of the _Hope's Flame _waited, and agonised. Luke had ordered that he be given five hours. It was approaching four and a half when the readings were detected.

Someone was firing up the array. To direct a beam of pure Force, open a rift in time and space. To do what none had ever dared try.

Skywalker contacted the ship. "_I see him. I'm going to try to talk to him. If that doesn't work I'll have to…_" and he'd sighed, "…_do whatever is necessary_."

Nothing had stopped. The minutes ticked past. The two Jedi, feeling somehow responsible, suffered with each passing second. It seemed to be taking far too long.

All the time, moreover, the power build-up in the station slowly grew. The Jedi aboard could feel the increase in the levels of ambient Force.

And then, with no sort of warning and no semblance of ceremony, they'd felt it.

A death.

_His _death.

The sheer impact of it sent all those sensitive to the Force reeling. Abruptly, suddenly, incredibly, the brightest star in the universe had been darkened.

Luke Skywalker, living legend, the boy who had destroyed the Death Star, the man who had taken on Thrawn and Daala and Exar Kun…

…was dead.

Helpless, stunned, they watched as the Force charge sparked, flared and caught. A lance of crackling white fire sprang forth from the mid-point of the twin wings, a cosmic lightsaber blade of unadulterated power.

As it seethed and hissed the space around it writhed, in ecstasy or agony. Below, the station itself _changed _before their gaze. Panels moved, antennae extended, sections seemed to grow from nowhere.

Finally the sabre of Force calmed, and the path to the station was open and safe once again.

The huge corridors, which had seemed desolate before, now _hummed_ with energy. The station was being powered by the Force it had channelled.

In the main control rooms, too, the configuration had changed. A deep pit had opened, a conduit of sorts which descended into the depths of the station. The Force was almost overwhelmingly strong here.

The Jedi crackled with power as they walked; little flashes of light _fizzed_ from their skin wherever they touched the surface.

Skywalker's body was nowhere to be found. Of his killer, they could sense nothing, which in itself was remarkable - with the power of the Force each now possessed, they were able to sense Corellia, many light-years distant.

All communication with the _Hope's Flame _was lost seconds afterward.

A great disturbance rippled the Force around them. It reverberated painfully inside their minds, causing them to fall to their knees in agony as they shrieked in sympathy with the station's groans of protest.

Though neither had much experience with what little was known of the mysterious systems aboard the station, they were able to recognise signs of a deliberate feedback overload.

Both knew then that they had only moments remaining.

Only their saturation in the Force kept the two Jedi alive as the life-support failed and temperatures soared. When they found the portal ten minutes had passed and the control room around them was literally melting around them.

It hovered before them, a doorway with height and width, but no depth; a gateway to another place and time.

The weaker of the two Jedi wavered. The other tried to help, but too late…he leapt into the energy field even as Site Zero blew apart.

She died in the explosion.

And when I…

---------------------------------------------------------

…the young Jedi took a moment to collect himself.

"When I came to," he continued, "I was lying in an alley on Coruscant. That was about two years ago. Another few minutes and I'd have been set upon by the scavengers, but I managed to get offworld."

He paused for a moment. Han kept his expression neutral.

"It's true. All of it," he shrugged helplessly, "not a word of a lie. The station sent me back in time, but too late…I came back after he had, too late to change what he'd done."

At Han's continuing silence, the Jedi's patience frayed. "Don't you _see_? Where I came from…_when _I came from…the Rebellion _won_ the battle of Yavin IV. Luke Skywalker blew up the Death Star, and the Alliance never looked back. But he _changed_ all that. He went back and changed history."

He stared into space, haunted. "It was always me who defended him, who wanted to give him a second chance. Who called him Un-"

That seemed to be the breaking point. He swept the holochess board from where it sat, letting out a long howl of rage as he stood, face red and body shaking. Around him, the _Falcon's _bulkheads creaked ominously as his tantrum extended into the realms of the Force.

Eventually he sank back into his chair, sobbing. He looked so young.

Han approached the crouching, sobbing figure. "What's your name, kid?" he said, not unkindly.

The Jedi hesitated.

"Durron," he said eventually. "Kyp Durron."

"Good to meet you, Kyp."

"You don't believe me," Kyp said, sighing. He fished something from his robe. "This and my lightsaber are the only thing that survived the translocation."

Han took the object. "A holo?" he said, doubtfully.

"Activate it."

Han flicked the switch.

"Oh," he said, and stumbled backwards.

The cube fell from his grasp and lay sideways on the floor of the _Millennium Falcon's _lounge, its holo-image still shimmering defiantly.

Kyp walked over and picked it up. He placed it in his pocket, patted it. "I knew it would come in handy someday," he said.

The image had shown Han, Leia, Luke, this Kyp Durron and a girl standing outside what, undeniably, was one of the ancient temples on Yavin IV. They'd all been wearing broad, carefree smiles and what looked like civilian clothes, except for Luke who'd been clad in a brown robe.

A Jedi Master's robe.

They had all looked at least twenty years older.

Han felt his world, his universe, his entire reality spin. In over twenty years as a smuggler, he'd never seen a forged holo of that quality.

The kid had been telling the truth. He had been living in the wrong galaxy. Leia should be alive.

_Leia should be alive. _

"How do we fix this?" he asked Kyp.

Kyp Durron smiled.


	21. Spectre of the Past

**Galaxies Apart**

**Twenty**

The _Privateer _was not a luxury liner. It would win no design awards nor beauty contests. It was not especially comfortable to live in or nice to look at, from the inside or out. The whole line was now out of service in favour of bigger, more spacious models with an entire observation deck.

Luke's head and hands pressed against the cold metal bulkhead as he maintained his motionless position, his forehead pressed against the floor, his body pointing straight up to the ceiling.

When the ship entered hyperspace the faster-than-light field wrapped so close that they bled all excess heat. _All _excess heat. Many models of starship had introduced independent heating to counteract this effect, but there was no such system on the _Privateer. _

He'd had it removed.

"Good," Yoda said approvingly. "Improving your self-discipline is. Progress you make, quickly."

Luke ignored the words, as good Jedi should. So far Yoda had been proving himself most keen to subject Luke to the kind of physical twistings and turnings that Luke felt certain his fragile and puny mortal body had never been designed for.

He had been like this for ninety-four minutes. That was another Jedi trick he'd picked up; an internal chronometer that had yet to be wrong by anything more than a heartbeat either way.

"Away, let your mind go," Yoda prompted him. "Things you will see. Places. People."

This was the tricky bit. Repeatedly they'd tried this on Dagobah, and it had always ended in failure. Yoda despaired of ever teaching him how to clear his mind. How could he? How could he just reach inside himself and rip out all of the anger and the injustice and the things he'd done to pay for this ship and...

...forget...

_forget_

_He was home. In the planet furthest from the bright centre of the universe. Far from the homestead, far from Uncle Owen and Aunt Be_

_smoking corpses_

_ru and the farm on which he'd grown up. He was far beyond the Dune Sea, if the position of the twin suns was anything to go by. At first that was all he could see, just the blinding sunlight of a Tatooine day, and then his brain seemed to paint in the rest of the details, slowly._

_He felt himself speak, in strange words. Words not his own._

_"You know I think my eyes are gettin' better," he said. "Instead of a big dark blur, I see a big light blur."_

_"There's nothing to see," a voice responded. It was familiar. Luke turned. It was his own voice, because the person speaking was him, and yet not him. He looked at the young man, so full of confidence and easy power, and _

_hated him hated him HATED HIM_

_wondered how he could ever have become like him. The other Luke spoke on. "I used to live here, you know."_

_More details sketched themselves in. Chewie. Guards with sticks. The skiff they were occupying settling to a halt over a pit in which lurked something Luke and Biggs had swapped breathless tales about as boys between chores. The Sarlacc._

_All hell broke loose. He felt himself pushed, grabbed a stick and tried to defend himself as best he could half-blind. Why so blind? What had happ_

_the slam of the carbonite chamber and Leia's face, Leia's tears for him as she told him she loved him_

_ened to his eyes? He watched the other Luke stand proudly with his hand aloft, managed to make out a droid - was that Artoo? - firing something compact and cylindrical into the dazzling sunshine. A lightsaber._

_Halfway to Luke's expectant hand, the saber changed direction and landed in the hands of a woman with a small yet deceptively powerful frame._

_"Bad luck, Skywalker," she grinned._

_Blaster fire rained down on Luke, left smoking holes in his body. He staggered backward, his last expression one of almost comical surprise _

_NOW YOU KNOW HOW IT FEELS_

_as he lost his footing and _

_I_

_tumbled into the maw of the_

_am_

_Sarlacc, swallowed in an_

_your -_

_instant, digested in an eternity..._

"Concentra_aaate_!" Yoda screamed as Luke tumbled from his position, taking the Jedi Master perched peacefully on the soles of his feet spilling with him.

The sweat covering his calves and thighs froze painfully on contact; he sucked in a breath and held it, getting to his feet and rubbing where the perspiration had solidified. "I'm...sorry..." he apologised, his mind still reeling.

Yoda regarded him with such keen intelligence at that moment that Luke felt some small measure of shame that he had ever doubted this being. Luke got the distinct impression that, had Yoda felt the need, he could have stripped Luke's mind to find the answers to any questions he wished to ask.

He didn't.

"What you saw..." he said instead, "discuss it, you do not need to. A useful gift, to see the future is. Use it wisely. Come to me with your questions when ready you know you truly are."

He hobbled from the room, leaving Luke alone.

The lightsaber-stealing woman had been Mara Jade. She was the reason they were taking such precautions before arriving at their destination. If Yoda was wary of Mara Jade discovering their destination, then why the hell invite her? She intrigued him, sure, but so had the Krayt Dragons. He wasn't planning to room with them anytime soon.

He'd felt stronger presences in the Force than hers - but sensing her Force powers was like mistaking the insect for the hive. The mark and the mind of the Emperor was an ever-present within her, invading her, using her almost constantly.

Somewhere inside he seethed at that. Not Palpatine, exactly…but the calm acceptance of Mara at each violation.

And now, he'd been forced to witness her casually betraying him and condemning him to death. The message was clear. She was not to be trusted.

But what had he heard at the end of the vision?

Try as he might, he couldn't reform the words. They slipped between the grasp of his memory, as immaterial as fog, vanishing as quickly as he tried to focus on them.

He would get answers. He was sure of it.

So why didn't that make him feel better...?

---------------------------------------------------------

Bakura.

Madine hoped that as many of the population as possible had evacuated whilst there was still time.

Not so long ago, the planet had been a beautiful world of oceans and seas and mountains. The Cherocera range had the honour of being the most perfectly circular set of peaks of any inhabited planet in the Empire. The aquatic species on this world had provided the upper-class Imperials with countless delicacies; a small portion of one plate would have accounted for his life savings.

So they said.

Now it was painful to stare at the surface. Bakura had resisted the Ssi-ruuk invasion with everything at their disposal. Isolated and ambushed with only a local fleet to call upon, the locals had fought the aliens tooth and nail for three bloody and stubborn weeks.

When their capital ships had been mortally wounded each and every one of them had gunned full throttle and rammed themselves against a Ssi-ruuk vessel of equal size. Each and every one of them. The Ssi-ruuk simply could not grasp the logic of that sort of sacrifice.

Madine had never subscribed to the humanist doctrine of the Empire. As an undercover operative he'd quickly seen that 'alien' species could not only be as ruthless and as cunning but they also tended not to be so cruel as his own superiors.

In his opinion it the resistance against 'invasion' by these so-called inferior aliens had contributed to sowing the seeds of discontent among so many of his peers in the Navy. With Grand Admiral Thrawn's meteoric rise, he'd felt genuine hope that times might change inside the system.

_Not likely now_, he lamented. Partly due to his own machinations the Grand Admiral had been dealt a humiliating defeat which would surely cost him his rank, if not his life.

Privately, Madine would have much rather taken down someone like Tarkin or even Vader himself. Still, he wasn't going to shed too many tears for Thrawn's white uniform, especially as the destruction of his career had mirrored the rebirth of the Rebellion, housed on this Death Star.

The _Alderaan. _

Well…the _Palpatine _had hardly been an appropriate name for a ship of liberation and freedom, was it? The Rebel leaders had settled on a name which would strike fear into the heart of the Empire. Personally Madine suspected that the chambered superlaser and the immense reactor core would do the trick perfectly well without the sentimental title.

Certainly Ackbar hadn't decided on it. The gravel-toned commander was currently instructing the Ssi-ruuk flagship on where to dock. Madine was invited to the meeting; he wasn't about to miss it and let those reptilian slimeballs away with anything.

As soon as this alliance was over, and if they were triumphant against the Imperials…he was going to follow Imperial protocol to the letter and stick it to the Ssi-ruuk where it hurt, then twist it to stop the blood from clotting.

With the acquisition of the _Alderaan_, all that was now needed was a destination. A rendezvous point. They needed a place to begin the retaking of the galaxy, to start the destruction of the Empire.

They needed, in short, somewhere in space and time the Empire would never believe, or at least admit to the galactic population, that they were vulnerable to attack.

Victory Day.

The battle for the galaxy would begin at Endor.

---------------------------------------------------------

From where Vader stood the depth seemed to be endless. A narrow platform, suspended by the flimsiest of frameworks jutting from the main body of the processing works.

Why? Why in eternity, why in the Force was he here, of all the places in the galaxy? The Dark Lord of the Sith, terror of countless worlds, standing on a mining platform in Cloud City of Bespin.

This place had it, though. A connection with _him_.

Vader's hand went to his lightsabre, attached securely to his uniform. He _wanted _to wield it, to fight with it. The urge was overpowering. Had Governor Calrissian chosen that moment to 'check' on his esteemed visitor he may have ended his greeting with less limbs than when he began.

So close. Yet he wasn't here, nor anywhere near. Wherever the son of Skywalker currently resided, it was out of his range.

Vader experienced the usual primordial surges when _that_ name passed through his consciousness.

_Could it really have been so long ago?_, Vader wondered joylessly.

The mining apparatus ground to a halt around him-a sure sign that Calrissian had located him. Vader determined to relish his last remaining moments of solitude. He felt so tired, suddenly.

Even the thought of utterly destroying Calrissian's patently obvious illegal operations here when he was finished failed to inspire him as once it might have. What was a small-time crook and a backwater planet like Lando Calrissian and Bespin to him? Would the governor ever pose a real threat to the Empire?

_I would have protected you, my son._

_He lied to me. He told me she was gone, and you with her as far as I knew. And I howled and never stopped howling, though I fell silent. Every life I took since I took to quiet that howl, and none of them worked._

_Did she think that I was incapable of protecting you from the Emperor? Did she think that to me my Master was more important to me than my own child, my own precious heir?_

So many questions. But those would forever go unanswered. She had been taken from him years ago. Only one person could provide him with solace.

"Lord Vader, sir!"

Lando Calrissian's voice. He turned back from the abyss.

The furtive governor skated nervously to him. "Ah, there you are. We were becoming a little concerned as to your whereabouts. We do have some rather…unsociable types here in Cloud City, I'm afraid."

Vader began the journey back under cover. "Your concern is touching," he returned with bored acidity, "but I think I would be quite safe."

Lando kept pace, always a respectful half-step behind. His timing was impeccable. "Are you planning on departing for the Regatta earlier than planned, in light of recent events, Lord Vader?"

Vader stopped in his tracks. "Recent events?"

He had cut himself off from contact with the Empire to help him meditate on his destinations, believing it hardly likely that the dominant force in the galaxy would fall apart in the space of a few days.

Realisation dawned on Calrissian's face. The man went pale. "You haven't heard."

"Enlighten me."

Calrissian looked as if he were about to faint. "We'd better get you to a comm station," he said weakly.


	22. Secret Council

**Galaxies Apart**

**Twenty-One**

Details of events at Sluis Van spread across the huge expanse of Imperial space. Losing the Death Star would have been a huge disaster, but to have it captured by the Alliance…it changed everything. With any other vessel in the galaxy – save one, perhaps – the balance of power would not have been affected by one ship.

A Death Starwas not any other ship.

Reaction was likewise swift. The Imperial military debated the debacle, and swiftly concluded that the judgement of the Emperor had been sound and correct in every possible detail. Members of such bodies had quite a habit of arriving at similar resolutions in order to avoid becoming bodies themselves…

The official verdict was unanimous. Thrawn was to blame.

No public comment on the tactics used in his attempted recapture of the Death Star were made. However, those present at Sluis Van that day knew what they had witnessed. No public comment did not mean no comment at all…

Grand Admirals and Moffs went to unheralded lengths to discuss the situation whilst conveniently forgetting to log their conferences in the official records.

The wheels were in motion.

Grand Moff Tarkin was currently chairing a meeting he would later erase from the station computer. Also present via hyperspace comm were several of his senior peers in the Navy.

"…what do you mean, investigations?" demanded Grand Admiral Tiernat.

Tarkin stared back, remaining placid. "What would you have me do, Tiernat? I had just heard - from _Vader_, of all people - that a consignment of TIE bombers and half a legion of my Imperial troops had been in a capture operation right under my nose, without my knowledge. I was compelled to perform some quiet research on the matter."

"What have you discovered, Tarkin?" that came from Moff Lursa, whom Tarkin had known for decades. Lursa commanded one of the biggest and most prestigious fleets in the Empire. He was a shrewd operator.

"A conspiracy," Tarkin stated simply. "Quite what purpose it serves I'm not certain, but I know that it is connected to the Jedi in some fashion. I also know that it was at work at Sluis Van."

"Your investigation only tells us what is blindingly obvious," Tiernat sneered. "It is not difficult to see that a conspiracy exists when one of our own commando units defects in the midst of a battle."

Tarkin struggled to keep his patience. "The conspiracy exists within our own ranks, Tiernat."

"Did your research give you any names?"

"A few," Tarkin admitted, "I'm having them…checked out now," he paused significantly, leaving little doubt as to the nature of this _checking_, "but I was able to determine that this extends to the very highest level of the Empire," seeing their eagerness for enlightenment, he milked the moment, savouring the power, "all the way to the Emperor himself."

After the initial contemplative silence, it was Lursa who spoke first. "What evidence do you have, Tarkin?"

"Troop transfer orders. I'll send them to you, of course. The orders show that Madine's commando traitors were _assisted_ in their efforts to pool together – assistance invisible to them, but without which they never would have been able to accumulate at Sluis Van in such numbers. Orders all signed by Palpatine himself – highly irregular for the Emperor to take such a personal interest in troop movements, I'm sure you'd agree."

"Why would Palpatine conspire against his own military? Why would he go to so much trouble and take so many risks to aid the organisation he spent years fighting against?" Lursa asked.

The only reply volunteered came from a surprising source. "Several reasons," said Admiral Piett. He was the lowest-ranked virtual attendee, but as the commanding officer of a Super Star Destroyer, his backing was vital. "Destroying Thrawn, for one."

The mention of that name silenced all concerned. "Explain, Admiral," Tarkin ordered.

Piett went on to detail the stratagem Thrawn had improvised. Each of the Grand Admirals and Moffs present had heard rumours. Piett was able to confirm them all. He had been there. He had seen the whole thing.

"That's the craziest thing I've ever heard," whistled Grand Moff Petarki.

"His plan could have worked. Under the circumstances he did astonishingly well," Piett continued, "and yet he is made a pariah for his efforts."

Tarkin sniffed. He disliked Thrawn, and hearing his tactical genius firsthand wasn't doing anything to improve that opinion. "Usual procedure for such a huge failure would be death, I don't think there's any question of that."

"Palpatine wanted to ruin him, not martyr him," Piett replied. "Killing Thrawn would have stirred anti-human feeling in the Empire's worlds. Giving Thrawn a command as prestigious as a Death Star and conspiring to have him blow that chance…much more effective."

Tarkin dismissed it. "I refuse to believe he would allow the Alliance to capture a Death Star simply to ruin Thrawn."

"Enlighten us, then," Tiernat invited him.

Tarkin took a breath. He was going to need it. "The Emperor _wanted _the Rebellion to capture the Death Star. Thrawn's humiliation was simply an added bonus."

"But," Petarki replied, voicing the thoughts of them all, "_why_? Why would the Emperor want to hand over the most terrible weapon in his arsenal to an organisation bent on his destruction?"

"The answer to that is this unofficial dialogue we are taking part in now," Tarkin sat back, relaxing now that realisation was flooding to him, "a few years ago, would we have been so bold as to go behind our supreme leader's back and speak to each other as we are doing at this moment?"

Petarki hesitated. "No, I suppose not."

"Of _course_ not," Tarkin emphasised the point. "Why?"

"We were too busy with the war, of cour…"

Petarki trailed off. Tarkin saw the implications dawn on him. He took the opportunity to strike.

"He _needs_ war, gentlemen. To maintain his grip on the Empire he needs to _manufacture _a conflict. The Emperor doesn't want victory – no, he wants the galaxy locked in a conflict he controls, one which allows him to remove his enemies, maintain his powers, justify his existence without challenge."

It was time to play his final card.

"He's done it before," he said.

He pressed the control to send the appropriate files to those he was communicating with across the light-years.

"Our Emperor started life as Senator Palpatine, of the sovereign planet of Naboo. This you all know. But I have holo-evidence which shows that he was also the mastermind behind the Confederacy of Independent Systems. Senator Palpatine _was_ Darth Sidious."

He saw the eyes of his fellow cabal members flick across the evidence he was sending them. He had gone to great trouble and tortured many to death to get it.

In fact, many Bothans died to bring him the information…

"He created the war to remove Chancellor Valorum and engineer himself as Supreme Chancellor. Twenty years later, he needed a similar scheme. By relinquishing of the Death Star to the Rebellion, not only did he re-create the civil war, he also removed the one individual inside his own military who he himself feared could bring down the ship in battle. Ingenious, absolutely ingenious."

"I call it insane," Piett spoke up again. "He would deliberately jeopardise the lives of every Imperial officer by unleashing the power of the Death Star on his own people? He's putting his entire military at risk along with any planet the Rebels choose to destroy."

"He's gone too far," fumed Grand Admiral DeSilva. "This kind of thing could bring us all down. Who's to say what else he's been up to? A Death Star is bad enough…but will it end there?"

General agreement was expressed by all. As the most senior spokesperson – and, not coincidentally – commander of the one ship which stood any chance against the Alliance's Death Star, Tarkin felt it was his responsibility to take charge.

"My friends," he called for order, "I share your concerns, let me assure you. For some time now I have felt that the bureaucracy of this Empire has grown far too isolated from the men on the front line. Whether we are at war or peace, sanity must be paramount in the governing of this entire Imperium."

Seeing their nods of agreement, he felt approved to go on.

"First, though, we must remember that conceded deliberately or no, the _Palpatine _lies in Rebel hands and will be used against us at every opportunity. We must come together and formulate a plan to deal with that threat."

Pausing again, he saw the agreement ripple around once more.

Tarkin had been born for this.

"When the Rebellion lies at our feet for the second and final time, we must decide how we are to proceed. I assume that each of you agrees the current situation is intolerable. Cards on the table, gentlemen. Do you have what it takes to stand firm and support a coup?"

Each of his potential rebels registered some discomfort. To his pleasure, however, all seemed solid.

"Do we want to stay as we are, an unused and forgotten Navy? Left behind in the wave of diplomacy and of bureaucracy and useful only to be manipulated at the whim of our leaders? Or shall we throw off the shackles given out by politicians more interested in arcane religion than the welfare of the men who die to put them in office? Shall we build a new and an efficient Empire, one focussed not on deceit and deception but on strength of will and weapon, one bathed in glorious victory?"

Expressions of affirmation came back from all concerned. Tarkin drank in the support. He had waited for this for far too long. He now had the endorsement of the Imperial Navy's elite.

When the time came and Palpatine was finally deposed, there would only be one possible replacement.


	23. Journeys to Destiny

Galaxies Apart

Twenty Two

Vader knelt in the shuttle.

The hologrid flared into life. Rather than the usual tiny projection a huge presence was beamed. A head, partly covered in a familiar blue-black robe, failing to hide the paleness of the skin beneath.

"Lord Vader," said Emperor Palpatine.

"What is thy bidding, my Master?" Vader gave the response he knew Palpatine wanted to hear.

As was the custom, the Emperor kept his face hidden behind the hood while they talked. "I assume," he began, his words exact and barely restraining the anger behind them, "that you have heard the news."

"I have, Master," Vader confirmed.

"Yet at a time of crisis like this I find that my most trusted ally and greatest warrior is not aboard his ship nor in contact with his Navy…"

Vader let the accusation hang.

"…do you have an explanation for this remarkable absence, Lord Vader?"

The tension between the two men carried, even across the incredible distances of hyperspace commlink.

"There is a great disturbance in the Force."

"This much I know," the Emperor replied, "we have felt it for some time now. I don't see how it explains your actions, Lord Vader."

Only occasionally did these one-on-one chats ever take place. Both men found that the intensity of the other was off-putting to making constructive dialogue.

Both men had something to hide from the other, and both needed to put quite a bit of effort into fending off the subtle press of the other's mind. Now, with so much at stake and so much to hide, it was worse than ever before.

"I have seen him again."

Palpatine stirred once more. "The son of Skywalker?"

"Yes," Vader revealed. "He visits me more often than ever before, each vision stronger than the last. I _must_ seek him out."

Memories of Mara Jade's last transmission from Dagobah flashed across the Emperor's mind. He knew where Skywalker had been not a few days ago. Soon, very soon, he would have his exact whereabouts.

But he was not about to tell Lord Vader that.

"Bespin?" he asked.

"The Force brought me here," Vader replied, and left it at that.

"I see," Palpatine nodded, "and what are your plans _now_, Lord Vader?"

It was a baited trap, a loaded question. Both men knew it. In Vader's mind the possible responses presented themselves.

He saw two paths before him; the first continuing down charted territory in the service of the Emperor and the second…a path riddled with unknowns, with doubt, with danger. Had he been the firebrand of his youth, he would have gone for that second path without second thought.

But he was not.

"What is thy bidding, my Master," he said again.

Behind that hood he felt certain that the Emperor smiled. "Return to your command vessel in time for the celebrations at Endor."

"They go ahead?" Vader said, surprised.

Palpatine waved away his objections. "The Alliance is as predictable now as it always was. With the bulk of the Imperial Navy amassed in one place, they will be sure to attack. We must be ready for them."

Vader considered the notion. If he understood him correctly, the Emperor was planning to draw the Rebellion out from where it hid by giving it the one thing it could not refuse; a chance to hurt the Empire's biggest and best ships, and therefore their entire base for control of the galaxy.

By creating this inevitable battlefield it would be possible to give the Fleet the best available chance to take out the Death Star, over a worthless world.

It would be _battle_, and that more than anything Vader ached for.

"I will be there, my Master."

A flick of the Force deactivated the holo. Vader rose from his knees, and set a course for Endor.

The Force told him that he would find his answers there.

And then, that he would die.

---------------------------------------------------------

The _Millennium Falcon _had not flown so well for years.

It was almost as if the ship sensed that its captain had a purpose once again, and responded in kind with a return to the speeds which had made it so famous.

Or at least, that was what Han liked to believe. The fact that Kyp Durron had an affinity for all things mechanical that bordered on the supernatural may have had some small part to play.

Han had developed a liking for listening to tales from through the looking-glass. Kyp related to him how his married life with Leia should have panned out - how a typically crazy move by Han in four years time would bring them to the wild world Dathomir and, eventually, to each other.

Less easy to take was the tale of how, after Han was exposed to high levels of radiation, the couple had handled the news that they could never conceive a child together.

There remained something about Durron which bothered Han. His instincts told him the boy meant them no harm, but nonetheless an itch existed at the back of the smuggler's mind about his young guest.

Threepio bustled unsteadily in some time later and offered everyone light refreshments.

"Let me fix him," Kyp asked.

Han nodded. Chewie reached out and deactivated the protocol droid. Threepio slouched forward. Han spread his hands, feeling the need to explain himself.

"We've tried to, kid. Believe me. Chewie here has been working on him for the past six months-off and on," Han added, shooting a meaningful glance at the Wookiee, "It's a normal side-effect of the counterpart safeguard; it was never meant to re-create the droid, just to save vital information the droid may have carried. You can't maintain a stable neural net on second-hand programming forever."

"Han," Kyp said gently, "I'm from the _future_. Plus, I'm a Jedi Knight."

"Being able to lift rocks-"

"-doesn't make you a good mechanic, kid." Kyp completed the sentence with an expression of wonder. A smile spread slowly across his face. He began to laugh, shaking his head in bemusement.

"What?"

"Nothing," Kyp held up his hands, "nothing at all."

The laughing continued. Han felt vaguely ridiculous. "What the hell are you laughing at, kid?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry…"

The credit dropped. "I say that, do I? Is that it?"

Kyp gave in. "You've been known to," he understated. "I…I work-_worked_ with you quite a lot. Every so often when I'd mention my Force abilities you'd lose your smile and say that, very sternly. It always used to crack me up. I'm sorry, but you sounded so much like yourself then I had to laugh."

"What do you know – I do a good impression of myself," Han said cheerfully.

Truthfully, he hadn't felt this good in years. Being around the Jedi was doing him good, giving him purpose again – not to mention the fact that Jabba was now Hutt-sized chunks of meat on the desert sands of Tatooine.

Maybe if things had been different…maybe if he hadn't been stuck in this perversion of time…he and Luke _might_ have made a good team.

_And we will again_. He was determined of that.

The _Falcon _was flying to Site Zero.

---------------------------------------------------------

"I have to report that, in our efforts to establish a ground base for troops and equipment on the forest moon, sir, we were forced to…er, deal with several tribes of the indigenous peoples. The matter is now closed, sir."

Tarkin looked up from his battle readiness report. "Hmm?" he said absently, "Ewoks, were they?"

The young lieutenant, sweating, glanced down at his readout. "Ewoks sir, that's correct."

"What's your name, lieutenant?"

The wretched officer let out a small resigned breath with a dejected _whee_. "Lieutenant Markon, sir."

Tarkin's cold stare impaled him. "New on the command crew, are you?"

"Promoted last week, sir."

"And just," Tarkin paused for effect, "how _many_ of these Ewoks did you…deal with, Lieutenant?"

Rich scrabbled through his figures, desperately trying to save himself. "Six thousand, sir."

Tarkin drummed his fingers on the desktop for a while, interestedly observing a trickle of perspiration that was circumnavigating Markon's nose and mouth. It _plopped _to the deck wetly.

"Excellent work, Lieutenant. Feel free to use similar methods in future."

"Yes, sir!"

Tarkin watched him salute, about-face and march out with a euphoric step. A small smile invaded his normally cadaverous features. A lifetime ago he had been that young, eager and naïve lieutenant and his CO had played almost the exact same trick on him.

How he'd enjoyed having _that_ old bastard executed.

---------------------------------------------------------

The shuttle was crowded with troopers en route to Endor. One sat alone.

He heard every whisper that followed in his wake, partly due to his excellent ears and partly because the perpetrators wanted to be overheard. All of them, more or less, muttered the same thing to each other.

_There he is._

_That's him. _

_The big-headed alien who lost us the Death Star. _

_It's his fault we're back at war. _

_Humans are better. Just like Palpatine always said._

"Hey!" a voice called.

Thrawn's red eyes narrowed to slits. He turned slowly to face this latest speaker, a burly human who filled out his infantry uniform to overflowing.

"Can I help you?" he inquired politely.

The shuttle had a main access corridor barely wide enough to allow single file procession. To each side, the stormtroopers and minor officers occupying the troop benches began to fill the air with hooting and yells of encouragement as the giant lumbered forward.

"Yeah," the giant eventually replied, when he was within grabbing distance of Thrawn. A leer appeared on his face. "You can go back to whatever miserable little planet you crawled from, you alien scum."

The watching crowd roared their approval.

"Thought you were good enough to push us humans into second place in our _own_ Empire. You didn't look so smart when the Rebels made off with the Death Star, did you?"

Another roar. Waving one huge hand for silence, the thug stabbed a finger from the other into Thrawn's face.

"What have you got to say for yourself now, you red-eyed freak?"

More hooting. A chant of _freak, freak, freak _began from the back of the transport. The stormtroopers used their blaster rifles to drum the rhythm on the deck of the tiny ship.

In the middle of it all the elected spokesperson for all those assembled stood and conducted the cacophony of hate.

Thrawn's mouth moved. His response was completely inaudible in the frenzy. Realising this, the giant bellowed for silence and got it without question. The transport was now as quiet as it had been noisy.

"Say it again, freak."

"I asked, can I help you?"

The giant rocked back on his heels, as the crowd reacted with boos and jeers. A component of blaster carbine sailed across the ship and impacted on Thrawn's ear with a _crack. _He flinched, and recovered.

"_Quiet!_" screamed the spokesman.

Yet again a hush descended, as he leant forward until he was nose to nose with the former Fleet Admiral.

"Can _you_ help _me_?" he repeated. "I think you can. You see, I'm from a world of humans only and I'm a little curious about you animals…" he waved an angry palm at the hoots which went up, "…and I was wondering what you look like from the inside compared to _real_ people. So I was thinking of cutting you up and taking a peek for myself. Is that OK with you, freak?"

The crowd froze, waiting for Thrawn's reaction.

The Commander's eyes glittered with crimson fire. His blue-black, cool skin made for a startling contrast. Only a very few times in his career had someone underestimated him, usually because stories tended to circulate pretty quickly.

It seemed they'd been forgotten. It was time for them to be re-learned.

"Come and get me," he hissed.

The crowd roared its approval. Battles between the lower ranks were common on such journeys, as the boredom and the stifling heat began to take their toll.

The Empire encouraged such conflicts; it worked to weed out the strong from the weak early and effectively. What the tests in training failed to spot, the process of working yourself up the lower ranks of the Imperial Navy usually soon highlighted.

Humans went in one end. Stormtroopers came out the other.

The giant smiled crazily, and roared, "I'm coming, freak!"

Before he could move Thrawn frowned in puzzlement. "But what I _don't_ understand," he said, shaking his head, "is how you expect to fight-"

A lot can happen in one second. Lovers can make it last for eternity, so it goes.

Experts in martial arts can make a heartbeat stretch for much, much longer than that.

Thrawn's hand blurred.

"-with a cardiac problem like that," Thrawn finished, as the giant toppled over onto the deck with a wet _crunch_, dead long before impact. Beneath his prone body the floor of the shuttle was already staining dark with blood.

Over the incredible, stunned quiet of the transport Thrawn glanced down at his left hand. He straightened his arm.

The stormtrooper who moments ago had felt brave enough to hurl a blaster carbine at Thrawn's head cried out in pain and terror as a human heart impacted the side of his head and exploded messily.

Thrawn sat down.

The shuttle flew on, Endor looming larger with every passing second.


	24. Reassembly

**Galaxies Apart**

**Twenty Three**

Luke licked his lips in anticipation. "Two minutes," he said, making preparations to bring the _Privateer _out of hyperspace.

He wanted to be able to turn around and see the look on Yoda's face before they left the realms of superlight travel.

He wanted a _clue_.

Footsteps told him that the cockpit had gained a third occupant. Mara Jade had, apparently, deemed that her presence was justified amongst the mere mortals she was forced to share her passage with.

"Mara," Yoda greeted her with an infuriating politeness.

She carried herself like she was royalty. Thinking back, he angrily discounted any similarity between the arrogant semi-Jedi and the small, immensely strong figure of Princess Leia.

Jade was nothing next to her.

Over the past few years, Leia's legacy had weighed heavy in Luke's mind. He replayed the brief time they'd spent together over and over in his, his guilt-ridden conscience refusing to let the memories fade.

His nightmares of the trench run were not the only recurring dream he experienced. Visions of Base One on Yavin IV listening to the reports of the battle, hearing the death cries of each Rebel pilot, realising that he, Luke Skywalker, had missed the exhaust port.

The superlaser blast had taken three seconds to impact.

What kind of hell had she went through in that time?

Had she cursed his name?

"My Master-" Jade began.

"…is a monster and a murderer," Luke finished.

The flash of anger from Mara he expected. The sadness from Yoda he didn't.

"Never give in to anger. The path to darkness it is."

"Justice isn't anger," Luke retorted. "One minute until sublight," he added, as his console _beeped. _

"That emotions are just, do not presume. More complex than that the galaxy is. Soon, you will know this all too well."

His interest piqued, Luke wanted to ask what he meant. Before he could, Mara tried again, shooting him a poisonous look he was all too happy to bat back.

"The Emperor wonders why you would prefer to travel here than to meet him face to face."

Yoda chuckled. To Luke, the laugh sounded genuine.

"Why through his Hand does he meet me, rather than face to face, if so keen is he? _That_, tell him."

"Ten seconds," Luke said, as his navicomputer _chirped_ at him.

This was it.

The _Privateer_ ceased to be a theoretical tachyon burst and began existing in the stately world of sublight astrophysics once again. The mottled starfield of hyperspace vanished, and stationary points of light took their place. Luke hardly noticed.

His hands tightened around their controls. His eyes widened. He hadn't known what to expect – a forbidden planet, an ancient civilisation, a nebula, a quasar cluster, a desolate moon, a black hole.

As far as he could tell, they'd dropped back into normal space alongside a gigantic TIE fighter.

---------------------------------------------------------

"What's our ETA?" Kyp asked, again.

"About five minutes less than the last time you asked," Han called from the cockpit. "About an hour, kid. Settle down."

_Good_, the young Jedi thought, as his welding instrument performed another piece of microsurgery on the prostrate form of C-3PO. It had taken him years of sweat and blood before he'd been able to regain these co-ordinates.

He wondered what the Gluyeu who'd sold the data to him was up to now. Certainly he was in no rush to return to Ryxx - before he'd left the system the Death Star had dropped out of hyperspace. He didn't know whether it was there for him or not, and hadn't felt the urge to find out.

Everywhere in this horrible, warped reality hurt him. He'd seen planets that should have been teeming with life and culture nothing more than worlds of slaves and overlords.

He'd seen asteroid fields where there should have been planets.

The Death Star had rampaged across the galaxy, and now there were _two_ of them…he shivered to think of it. And to think that the root of all this suffering was a device used in the construction of planetary shield generators.

An simple piece of technology, in the wrong place. At the wrong time.

The time portal had been re-programmed so that anyone following the initial traveller would find themselves arriving helplessly late and stranded a year from the event.

Jedi were far from helpless, wherever they were, and he had been no exception. After arriving on Coruscant, he'd used the Force to trick his way into some money, and from there into a modest job and a place to live.

Keeping his use of the Force to an absolute minimum - the Imperial Palace and its occupant loomed large, all too near where he lived - he'd scraped together enough credits to buy himself a ship and set up as a small-time smuggler.

Just like Han Solo must have done.

As time went by, he stopped having to worry about where the next meal was coming from. But he couldn't settle in this time. He'd be betraying them all if he did. So he kept a constant ear to the ground, gathering as much information about this new galaxy and this new history as he could.

Luke and Han had proven themselves nigh on impossible to track down. He'd been forced to abandon searching for them and concentrate on regaining the co-ordinates for Site Zero any way he could.

Jumping from the Ryxx system, he had sensed it. The Force delivered the message to him – Tatooine. He had to get there, and fast.

The rest was, quite literally, history.

Wiping sweat from his nose, he turned his full attention back to the task at hand. Ironically Kyp knew that the droid had been re-assembled in the alternate timeline, on Bespin.

"unit-unit-unit-unit-oooo_nnnnnn_nnnn-line-line-line-" warbled Threepio.

"How do you feel, Threepio?"

The droid's eyes flickered wildly. "not-not-not-not-not-_twowwowooo _good."

"Hmm…" Kyp mused, mentally reviewing his last few adjustments. Reaching, he reset a circuit board.

"How about now?"

"Better," Threepio said.

Threepio's visual receptors focussed on the face above him, which smiled warmly down and said, "Good. Very good."

"Question: Just what do you think you're doing to my control boards?" Threepio demanded. "Specification: Are you a qualified mechanic? Where's your identification protocol? Demand: You have ten seconds to comply."

"Just keep talking. You're doing fine," Kyp said reassuringly.

"Repeating: Did you hear what I said? Threat: Identify yourself - you have five seconds to comply."

The stranger didn't seem at all fazed. "Designation: Kyp Durron. If you're confused, it's because you haven't been quite yourself for some time. Judging by how you're acting, I'd say you're still not quite there..."

Threepio's droid brain pondered that curious statement. "Admittal: I do seem to have rather puzzling memories of the last few months," he admitted at last. "I appear to have taken some serious damage…" he added, "…which leads me to believe that I have been wounded in action."

"In action?"

"Statement: I am a combat droid, am I not?" Threepio demanded.

Off to one side, until now watching in concerned silence, Artoo Detoo abruptly let loose with a squeal of droid amusement.

Kyp was smiling too. "Not quite, Threepio."

"Rebuttal: I'm afraid I don't believe you," Threepio said. "As such, I will now disable you…oh…"

"What is it?" the voice contained not a hint of impatience.

"Question: Where are my legs?" the droid demanded.

"Right over there," the young man pointed. Sure enough, a pair of golden legs rested serenely on a nearby crate.

There was a momentary silence.

"Query: I don't suppose you would care to surrender?"

"Not right now," Kyp replied. With a sigh of satisfaction he completed his repairs on Threepio's behavioural nodes. "Re-engaging neural net…_now_."

"Oh, my," Threepio said. "What have I done?!"

Kyp beamed. "Welcome back," he said, and patted the droid's shoulder plating.

"How can I apologise for my disgraceful behaviour?" Threepio wailed, "_Please _don't deactivate me."

"You don't have to," Kyp assured him, smiling. "You weren't yourself, Threepio. Let's just leave it at that."

"Oh, thank you, Master Kyp. I can't tell you how much better I feel. Thank the Maker! It's a glorious day! A wonderful day!" Threepio gushed.

"No problem."

Artoo, bouncing from wheel to wheel, _bleeped_ and whistled long and loud to his companion.

Threepio's euphoria abruptly vanished.

"Pardon me?" Threepio said, outraged. "It's good to see _me _making sense again? That's rich, coming from an overgrown scrap pile like you."

The two droids launched into a back-and-forth exchange the like of which hadn't been seen between them in years. You didn't have to speak binary to see that Artoo was overjoyed to be exchanging insults with his old friend.

"Can you two keep it down in here? Some of us are trying to pilot."

"Han!" Kyp called, in some relief. "What do you think?"

"You did it."

"I had a pretty good teacher," Kyp admitted, looking at him. "Well...I _will have _a pretty good teacher...oh, you get what I mean."

Han glowed with a strange sort of pride. He thought again about the Battle of Yavin. That day should have ended with a victory celebration on the fourth moon. Kyp hadn't wanted to go into all that much detail, but Han didn't need any stimulation to imagine the scene.

The ancient temple filled with Rebel troops, surviving snubfighter pilots from the mission he'd labelled as little more than 'suicide'. He and Luke, walking alongside one another, Han trying not to smile at the ludicrous notion of him being a hero.

Stepping forward to receive medals from the hands of Princess Leia Organa herself. He'd have winked at her-of that much he was certain. Only if Chewie was given a medal too, of course.

That day, flying toward Jabba with a cargo hold full of money, when he made the decision to turn around and join that desperate stand, was the day that Han Solo, scoundrel, had realised there were causes worth dying for.

Only for him to be forced to watch as that cause died.

---------------------------------------------------------

Vader's shuttle would drop out of hyperspace and into the Endor system in less than an hour. Moff Tarkin had that amount of time to complete his preparations. This meant the usual spit and polish exercise on the troops ahead of their arrival of their C-in-C.

On another level, however, his preparations took on a deeper significance. His conversation with the Dark Lord of the Sith onboard the _Executor_ had set Tarkin on the road to uncovering the Emperor's little scheme to bring the Rebellion back from the brink of destruction.

One would imagine, then, that Vader would be a natural addition to Tarkin's own exclusive cabal of…_enlightened_ Fleet officers.

He hadn't got to be where he was today by underestimating the deviousness of his peers. None he knew, save of course Palpatine himself, was deserving of less trust than the Dark Lord.

In fact, he hadn't completely ruled out the possibility that this whole affair was nothing more than a convoluted loyalty test concocted by Vader and the Emperor.

No, this was not the time to reveal to Vader what he knew of the loss of the second Death Star, nor the plan he and his allies were creating to deal with it.

Now _was_ the time to utilise Vader's unique talents in foiling whatever ambush the Rebels were no doubt plotting to spring on the Imperial Fleet.

Palpatine no doubt considered himself most astute in creating this golden opportunity. Tarkin's lip curled in distaste. Did the Emperor really think his Navy was so blind as to notice that he was holding the Victory Day Regatta above Endor - a world of no tactical significance, isolated from all major trade routes, and populated with the hugely irritating Ewoks?

Normally Victory Day took place in the Core Worlds and attracted a veritable flotilla of civilian sightseeing ships - none had so far arrived.

In previous years the Emperor himself had performed the opening and closing ceremonies-where was he this time around? Palpatine might as well have ordered the words COME AND GET US painted across the treetops of Endor so big they'd have been visible from orbit and have done with it.

Tarkin, however, was determined that his force would be more than ready for the Alliance. The security measures around the forest moon had already been ultra-tight, given the immensity of the collected risk assembled here. Nevertheless he'd tweaked the procedures wherever he could.

He had ordered that all Imperial ships were to stay on the same side of Endor as his Death Star. If the _Palpatine_ did indeed drop from hyperspace right in the middle of them, then none of the big prizes would be isolated from the protection that his command ship's superlaser provided.

The only protection they had...

Tarkin had been breaking the backs of his crew to improve the charging times of a superlaser blast. He was extremely conscious of the fact that the Mark 2 reactor core carried by the _Alderaan _was significantly faster than his own.

In a battle involving the gigantic destructive capacity of a superlaser, the first shot fired would most likely be the decisive blast. Tarkin was determined that his Death Star would be the one to fire that shot.

"Grand Moff Tarkin, sir?" his adjutant, an extremely capable young woman called Toranne, communicated from the adjoining administration room.

"Yes?" he said. They hadn't bothered him in over two hours; he felt able to overlook this interruption.

A short pause. Then, "There's someone here to see you, sir. A Commander. He doesn't have an appointment. Shall I inform him of your extremely busy schedule and send him on his way, sir?"

Tarkin felt his previous affability evaporate. "Tell him he is fortunate I do not go any further than to dismiss him, Toranne. I feel almost inclined to clap him in the brig for his insolence."

"As you say, sir," she replied, sounding relieved. He frowned at that.

"Toranne?" he flicked the intercom switch, resting his hand on his face.

"Yes, sir?"

"What is the name of this Commander?"

She told him.

Tarkin wiped blood from his cheek. "Send him in."

The captain of the Imperial flagship sat back in his personal throne. This _should _prove interesting.

His door opened. In stepped Commander Thrawn.

"Grand Moff," the newly-demoted officer bowed, the epitome of politeness.

"I'm surprised to see you here," Tarkin replied, not bothering to return the greeting.

Nevertheless, there was protocol to consider. Tarkin motioned for Thrawn to be seated. He sat.

"What is it you want?"

Thrawn leaned forward. "How much do you know, Grand Moff?"

"You'll have to be a little more specific, Commander."

"About Sluis Van."

The game's rules were set. It was now Tarkin's turn to move. "Full details were transcribed across the Imperial Net, Commander. I have complete knowledge of the…" and he paused, "events."

The former Fleet Admiral absorbed that hesitation well. "It is my opinion that there was more to what went on at Sluis Van than met the eye."

"Pray continue."

"The Rebel spy network seemed inordinately well informed," Thrawn began ticking off points on his fingers, "they were aware not only of the location but the layout of the shipyards, they knew what our threat response measures were, they managed to conceal an entire squadron of their own troops inside Imperial ranks for a period of several months, they had full knowledge of high-level command codes and operating procedures for the Death Star and," he concluded, "they somehow concealed a base containing troop transports and a dozen snubfighters or more no less than twenty miles from the yards."

"Quite an achievement," Tarkin commented neutrally.

Thrawn raised an eyebrow. "Something of an understatement, Grand Moff. The Rebels had active assistance from the highest echelons of the Empire. That much seems certain."

"A very serious accusation, _Commander. _Have you any evidence?"

To his credit, the shamed alien showed absolutely no fear. "Nothing duracrete," he confessed, "but my own instincts and experience tells me that I am without doubt correct in my suspicions. My own…" he shifted, "…treatment at the hands of the Emperor seems to confirm them further."

"Your punishment was not so harsh as that given to Commodore Jurstt," Tarkin pointed out.

The temperature of the conversation plummeted. "That," Thrawn hissed, "was an injustice, and I think you know it, Grand Moff. _No-one_ deserves to be cut down in such a fashion. Not from light-years away. Not on a whim. We must move past such barbarism."

For a long moment Tarkin contemplated where to go from here. From Thrawn's views and his anger he would make an ideal addition to the cabal…yet so, for that matter, would Vader.

Then again, there was no disputing that here was a quality officer. Better, here was a quality officer with a huge, career-ending blemish on his record…which would prevent him from ever gaining a position that would threaten Tarkin's ambitions.

Thrawn had been tamed.

"Who do you think is behind all of this, Commander?"

Thrawn didn't hesitate for an instant. "The Emperor himself."

Tarkin nodded, unsurprised. He hadn't even said it like it was in any doubt.

"We think so."

"We?"

"There are less than ten of us. All will be present at the Victory Day Regatta. Palpatine's next move will be to entice the Rebels into attacking us here, make us take heavy losses and retreat."

Thrawn nodded in approval. "Exactly what I was expecting. A signal to the rest of the galaxy that war has been rejoined."

"We cannot permit that to happen. The Navy is not here to play the Emperor's political games for him. Neither am I. Neither is this ship."

Now he focussed on the former golden boy. "I need your expertise, Thrawn, to help handle the Death Star. I never expected you to be assigned here, and I couldn't have asked for you. Now that you _are _here I can use you…but only in secret. You'll be on the bridge of my Death Star, disguised. We'll give you a temporary identity."

Thrawn seemed satisfied. "Excellent, Grand Moff. If you don't mind I'd like to spend the next few hours going over as much tactical information as you can provide. How many ships we have, their positions, the itinerary of events, orbital data…I can use it all."

"Agreed."

"How well supported are the Alliance? Is the _Alderaan_ all they have?"

Tarkin pursed his lips and pulled at them with one hand, a habit he'd acquired over the years. "Our intelligence suggests their ship resources are almost non-existent…but then again, our intelligence on them may be slightly astray from the truth, if our conspiracy exists. We must be cautious, Commander."

Thrawn accepted this. Abruptly his focus shifted, and he leaned forward in his seat to come face to face with Tarkin. "Grand Moff, on the subject of the Emperor..."

"Yes?"

"I have something to offer you. It will prove invaluable should...the situation change in regards to our servitude to the Emperor."

"And what might you expect in return?"

"Your protection," Thrawn replied. "There was an assassination attempt on me on the troop transport to Endor."

"I had heard," Tarkin replied drily. "You seemed to deal with it quite well."

"Unarmed morons I can handle. Anything more than that, however..." Thrawn stared intently at Tarkin, "I have no wish to die, Grand Moff. Be sure of that."

"I'll use my influence as best I can, Commander. But we both know you have one extremely powerful enemy. I can't guarantee your safety."

"Then give me Rukh."

Tarkin considered it. He disliked the Noghri as a race and had no particular desire to share his bridge with one, but Thrawn's talents would be vital in the near future. Of that there was no doubt.

"Very well," he assented. "I'll make the arrangements. I hope this provides you with some peace of mind, Commander."

Thrawn stood, knowing when he was dismissed. He bowed a little in gratitude, Tarkin was pleased to note.

"Believe me, Grand Moff...with Rukh at my side, I couldn't be safer."


	25. Dark Prophet

**Galaxies Apart**

**Twenty-Four**

The Bakuran system was filled with starships. Madine had watched them vector in, one after the other, for the past three days and they showed no signs of stopping. His unease at this whole venture went along the same lines. He'd known the Ssi-ruuk had extensive resources in their sectors, but-

This wasn't the 'significant support' that the aliens had promised the Rebellion. This was nothing short of an Armada.

He estimated over one hundred and thirty Star Destroyer-equivalent vessels, not to mention the four even larger ships – Ssi-Ruuk equivalents to Super Star Destroyers. If this was only their _invasion_ force…then the Empire had been seriously underestimating the threat these beings posed.

Eight months ago a fair-sized Imperial 'scouting' (read: conquest) mission, including eight Star Destroyers, had been utterly annihilated after 'scouting' too close to a Ssi-Ruuk colony world. With the taste for victory over the galaxy's greatest power firmly scented, the Ssi-ruuk were ready to hurt the Empire once again.

The question was, were they prepared to keep to the terms of the alliance they had signed?

Madine patted his console. If they decided against it…the _Alderaan _would quickly demonstrate that even an armada of capital ships were no match for the sheer power of a Death Star's superlaser. In fact, he almost hoped they would. If those rumours were true about entechment…he'd see to it personally not a single Ssi-Ruuk ship was left intact.

The Empire were bad enough, yes, they could treat people like slaves to the Imperial machine, but at least they didn't _consume _them for a few weeks worth of power.

Whatever his misgivings, the Rebel Alliance had found a valuable ally in the Ssi-ruuk. Like it or not, they would be attacking the Empire at Endor together. Madine found it all to easy to visualise the _Alderaan _and its flanking guard of Ssi-ruuk cruisers blasting their way to a crushing victory.

What happened after…well, they'd just have to wait and see.

---------------------------------------------------------

"What is this place?" Luke said wonderingly, as the _Privateer _swept around the huge structure.

In his youth he'd liked nothing more than to watch Biggs' holoprojections of ship and orbital designs. He'd never seen anything even remotely like this. Never _felt _anywhere like this.

The space around him _seethed _with the Force.

"Magnificent."

With a start Luke realised that the word had originated from Mara Jade. Such was the visual impact that it had drawn a reaction from the Ice Queen. No greater tribute.

"Master?" he turned to Yoda, who had remained silent.

"Closer, take us," Yoda eventually spoke. He gaze swept to Luke. "Feel it, do you?" he asked softly. "To miss it would be hard."

Luke's spine chilled at the tone Yoda used. "Feel what, Master?"

Yoda tapped the transparisteel cockpit window, pointing with a gnarled finger to the space station.

"A place of death, this is."

The _Privateer _swooped toward the docking hatch.

---------------------------------------------------------

Ston padded stealthily down the long, long corridor toward the Throne Room. It was deep into the night. Seldom, however, did the ruler of the Empire actually sleep in his chambers.

Ston could make out his silhouette now, as he drew closer to the Imperial throne, highlighted against the flicker of the huge candles the Emperor had imported from some backwater planet or other. They apparently improved his concentration when, as he was doing now, he was deeply immersed in meditation.

He stopped at the foot of the steps to the throne. At times like this Palpatine seemed so old and vulnerable, simply resting on a throne with his regal gowns crumpled and strewn about him. It would be easy to imagine why some had underestimated the man behind that hood.

Ston had never, _ever_ been in any danger of making that mistake.

Ordinarily he wouldn't dare to do what he was about to do now. However, the Emperor himself had told him what to do in this situation.

"Sir?" he called, tremulously.

When no response was forthcoming, he winced and raised his voice ten decibels or so. "Sir?"

This time he had sufficient volume. Palpatine's eyes snapped open and his attention focussed on Ston and only Ston.

"He has contacted?" the Emperor demanded. Ston nodded.

Mere months after the victory at Yavin IV, the Imperial Palace had received the first message from an individual who referred to himself as the Prophet. It had listed five Imperial governors, and provided long and detailed accounts of their Rebel sympathies. Prophet demanded their immediate execution, but provided no real, concrete evidence Palpatine could use to convict the supposed traitors.

He'd had them killed anyway, if for no other purpose than to increase the likelihood that Prophet would transmit another message.

The Emperor was intrigued by this enigmatic benefactor. A few weeks later, Prophet transmitted the locations of over twenty hidden Alliance bases; he was correct in every single one of them, and they had been summarily destroyed.

Curious both as to how one individual was privy to so much quality intelligence, and how he was succeeding in keeping the source of his data blasts so well cloaked, Palpatine persuaded his best technicians to work on the quandary.

His technicians eventually gave him the ability to send a reply along the transmission line for the few fractions of a second it would remain open. In this message he made it clear to Prophet that he had no liking for unknowns, whatever their sympathies. He had demanded face-to-face communication.

These came rarely but when they came, they were strange things indeed. Although Prophet kept his features concealed, much as the Emperor was fond of doing, he could do nothing to disguise his obvious status as a Jedi. And a powerful one – he was able to turn aside the most potent of Palpatine's mind probes with little apparent difficulty.

He refused point-blank to answer most of the questions snapped at him, and spoke only to impart information.

Only when the proton inhibitor had been uncovered had Palpatine finally discovered the most likely source of Prophet's abilities. He was a time traveller. Perhaps the same time traveller that had so kindly deposited the inhibitor aboard the Death Star in the first place.

The question remained, though; what was he going to do with Prophet?

When he had sent Mara Jade to Dagobah, he had made use of Vader's long-standing relationship with the race of assassins, the Noghri. Seventeen Noghri teams had been quickly and quietly dispatched on separate leads to locate the person known only as Prophet.

With three years of back transmissions to work from, Imperial scientists had gingerly pinpointed a region of space from which, they had estimated, the signals were coming from.

He'd heard nothing thus far.

"Patch him through," Palpatine said, and sat back on his throne.

His personal hologrid flickered as Ston went through the necessary procedures to link the signal. Eventually it settled upon the head and shoulders of a man, steeped in shadow to obscure his identity.

"You are connected," Ston gabbled. He stepped hurriedly out of the conversation area.

Prophet was the first to speak. He tilted his head, shadows still casting most of it in darkness. "Master. I have information for you."

"What terrible fate befalls the Empire?"

"This warning concerns you."

Ston took a step back.

"Is that so," the Emperor replied softly, dangerously.

"I have learned you have chosen to hold Victory Day in the Endor system."

"It is hardly a secret."

"The Endor system is not suitable. It bodes nothing but disaster for the Empire."

"You refer," the Emperor responded, almost lazily, "no doubt, to the Alliance's capture of the Death Star and their _surprise_ attack on our massed forces."

"You do not understand the scale of the danger, Master. The Rebellion has forged an alliance with-"

"The Ssi-ruuk Imperium? Yes, I know," the Emperor shrugged off the information casually. "My spies have told me as much. Preparations _have_ been made."

That was a lie. Prophet wouldn't know that, of course. A lot was resting on the Empire's defeat at Endor.

"Are you planning to go to Endor?"

"Of course. Anything else would be bad form."

Another lie. Wild Rancors couldn't have dragged him within a sector of Endor.

"You must _not _travel to Endor."

Palpatine made a show of considering this. "In light of the accuracy of your previous statements…perhaps it is time to make an exception."

"A wise choice, Master."

"Perhaps if the threat of danger is so strong," Palpatine continued, "I should also recall the Lord Vader-"

_There_.

He had it. _He had it. _

At the mention of Vader, a flash of emotions crossed that impenetrable mind. Palpatine was able to identify the strongest emotion in that mix instantly.

Hatred.

"Reveal your identity and location to me."

"I cannot, at this time," Prophet replied. "Do not ask me again."

"Remember to whom you speak," the Emperor spat back angrily.

"You would do well to do the same, _Master_," Prophet replied. "But for me, the Alliance would have-"

"-destroyed the Death Star?"

The Jedi reared back, as if shot. His defences crumbled as the impact of Palpatine's statement hit home. "It was you, wasn't it," the Emperor purred comfortingly, his gaze unwavering. "Who went back - who _will_ go back - and changed the events of Yavin IV. The proton inhibitor was yours."

"So. You know the truth."

"I am not so foolish as you would seem to believe. Do not mistake me for a fool again," the Emperor said, putting as much warning into his words as he could.

"I did not think you would believe it."

"I believe you have power beyond what Jedi have dreamed of. To change history – to unwrite destiny. It is a power higher than the Force itself."

Prophet was no fool, either. "You want that power."

"I want to dispense with these games. Come to me. We have much to discuss."

"I cannot. You don't understand."

Palpatine hissed in frustration and anger. "Then stop wasting my time feeding me with scraps. Tell me. Tell me the history of your galaxy."

Prophet considered this, and nodded.

"Let's start with Vader…" he said.


	26. Many Meetings

**Galaxies Apart**

**Twenty-Five**

The _Millennium Falcon _dropped from hyperspace.

Site Zero provoked very different reactions in those on board. C3PO and R2D2 lacked the capability to make an aesthetic judgement on a piece of stellar furnishing no radically different from the kind they were used to witnessing day in, day out.

Besides, Threepio was far too busy complaining - to a pretending-to-be-too-busy-to-listen Artoo, of course - that no-one had been courteous enough as yet to re-attach his legs.

Han Solo, ordinarily a man so seasoned he was practically a herb, nonetheless felt himself a little impressed at the scale of what he saw. He had one thing on his mind: how this station was going to allow him to correct the damage done to his past.

Leia filled his thoughts, as ever more than by all rights she should have done. Han Solo had deserved his scoundrel reputation when it came to women, but a few days in her company and he'd never been able to erase her from his mind.

Hearing from Kyp that they had always been destined to be together – seeing that holo of them standing beside one another, so comfortable – it explained that feeling. It just didn't make it any easier to live with.

But for the first time in years he could think of getting her back without that horrible certainty that it would never happen.

Chewbacca, as ever, said little. Even Han couldn't work out what his co-pilot was thinking sometimes. In the last five years the Empire had strengthened their hold on Kashyyyk, his home planet, subjugating the entire indigenous population to slavery.

That included Chewie's entire family...

Kyp Durron had been here before. This part of space seemed still to vibrate with the intensity of Master Skywalker's death throes.

He could almost feel-

No. Not almost. He _could _feel…

"I don't believe it…" he choked, pointing. They all saw it.

"I thought you said this place was off the map," Han remarked.

"It's _him_," Kyp said excitedly. "Luke is _here_, now."

_A hell of a coincidence_, Han thought. His hands automatically shifted to rest on the controls for the _Falcon_'s turbolasers. If someone thought they were pretty cute by pulling a hoax, he'd be ready. A glance across at Chewie reassured him that his co-pilot was likewise less than convinced by the timing.

"Open a channel!" Kyp urged.

"Relax, kid," Han returned with an easy air he didn't quite feel. "All in good time. Now, let's put those Jedi tricks to good use. Can you be sure that's Skywalker?"

"I…don't understand."

Han smiled. "Just smuggler's paranoia. Humour me."

Durron didn't seem to fully comprehend what merited Han's concern. Solo supposed it was something to do with the Force, and let it go. He knew the kid wouldn't make him go ahead just on his say so; he was young, a little naïve, but not stupid. Han could imagine the two of them getting along.

"Let me contact them," Kyp offered. "I'll be able to tell you then. For sure."

Han nodded. Chewie flicked the comm switch.

"This is the _Millennium Falcon_," Kyp transmitted. "I repeat: this is the _Millenium Falcon_. Do you copy?"

---------------------------------------------------------

"-do you copy?"

Since they'd dropped out of hyperspace Yoda had insisted they complete thorough scans of the station for life. He'd welcomed any interruption to the tedium of listening to incessant _beeps _from the Corvette's main sensor banks.

The transmission had attracted Mara Jade to the cockpit within seconds. He wasn't surprised. The woman was like a coiled spring.

As to their sudden neighbors...Luke frowned. How did Solo manage to find a place like this? What did he want?

They hadn't exactly parted on the best of terms. After Yavin, Solo had too many bad memories attached to him.

"_Falcon_, this is _Privateer_," he glanced out of the cockpit at the battered old freighter, knowing better than to take it at its face value. "I have you loud and clear. What has you way out here?"

Those last three words had been chosen carefully. _You'd better explain how in the worlds you managed to be out here..._

The comm was silent for a moment. It seemed they'd gotten the message.Luke prepped the guns. Mara noticed the movement and shot him an approving glance. If Luke hadn't been so tense he'd have fainted on the spot.

"_Falcon_, do you copy?" he repeated himself.

As he spoke he sent a quick burst to the manoeuvring thrusters. The ship began a slow spin that would shortly bring them into a prime attacking position.

"Tell you what, kid," a different voice rattled over the comm, "if you don't break off that attack posture, I'll remind you just what the _Falcon _can do to a tin can like yours."

"Just minimising my risks, Han, old buddy," Luke returned easily, arresting his ship's rotation but keeping his hand over the weapons systems controls.

"Been a long time," Han's voice continued. Luke could detect no malice in the words or the tone. "Believe it or not, we've got a lot to talk about, kiddo."

"You might be right," Luke predicted. He was about to add something to that when he became aware of Yoda's presence in the _Privateer's _cockpit. Luke blinked. The little Jedi Master seemed...a little frail. All the more surprising given the sheer amount of the Force in this place; personally he'd never felt better.

"Something wrong, Master?"

Yoda ignored the question. "Aboard that vessel, who is?"

Luke frowned. "An old…acquaintance of mine. Han Solo."

"Aware of him, and of my good friend from Kashyyyk, I am. The other-"

"Luke Skywalker?" the first voice called again from the comm. "I need to talk to you."

Before Luke could move the little Jedi Master had scampered from the entrance to the cockpit and reached the controls to the comm station. "Feel you I can," he sent, "who are you, tell me?"

The _Falcon _didn't respond right away. "Who is this?" the first speaker eventually transmitted, puzzled.

Yoda told him. There was a muffled squawk of surprise from the other end of the comm.

"Yoda!" the voice spluttered. "Oh…of course…I'm so sorry, Master. Forgive me. It's just that-"

"Understandable, it is."

"I'm glad _someone_ thinks so. What's going on?" Luke pleaded, unaware that he was echoing Han Solo's exact words at the same moment.

He was promptly ignored. "_Millennium Falcon_," Yoda continued, "to the aft docking bay, please follow us. Speak again there once docked, we will."

Instructions given, he deactivated the signal link. Noticing Luke's expression, he tilted his head. "What are you waiting for?"

Luke's reply was mercifully lost in Yoda's cackles.

---------------------------------------------------------

Mon Calamarians, dubbed by some 'the soul of the Rebellion', were undoubtedly excellent technicians and lieutenants. Crix Madine could see as much for himself from his own station as several members of the aquatic species milled around the bridge of the _Alderaan_ with purpose and skill.

Decades of Imperial slavery had forced them into close proximity to Imperial systems and controls, and had awoken within the species an almost instinctual talent for operating crucial hardware and repairing it with supernatural speed.

Madine could think of no other race he'd rather have as the lifeblood of a ship, particularly with the _Alderaan _less than three minutes from entering the Endor system…and the biggest battle in recent history.

As for their suitability for command…he was less certain. Admiral Ackbar was a competent and an accomplished commander, no doubt about it. And yes, it was also true that on a ship like the _Alderaan _a tactical genius was not exactly a necessity to ensure victory.

Yet the fact remained; the Death Star would shortly be facing an Imperial Fleet which had a combined force of unimaginable power, _and _possibly the sole vessel in the galaxy which stood a realistic chance of success against the _Alderaan _in one-on-one combat. The Death Star. The original model. Less advanced than their own, but fully manned and operational in the field for five years.

Madine knew the Tarkin of legend, but more worryingly he knew the man himself. He would find a way to hurt the Rebels; of that Madine was certain.

Could Ackbar cope with that? Crix didn't know. On balance, the Rebels held huge advantages. The Imperials didn't know they were coming, after all. In all probability _Alderaan _would be at its leisure to drop from hyperspace, cruise around the perimeter, charge the superlaser and take out Tarkin's Star with one shot, thus leaving the way clear for a Rebel and Ssi-ruuk rout of the remaining Imperial forces.

Madine tried to contain his excitement at getting the chance to do just that. He wasn't stupid, though, and he wasn't letting himself get carried away with the feeling of absolute invincibility the _Alderaan _seemed to infect others with.

_Ackbar, for one_, he thought gloomily. To his left a gravel-toned Mon Calamarian announced that there were two minutes on the clock. The activity around him seemed, incredibly, to go up a further few notches.

Communication and synchronisation with the Ssi-ruuvi flanking ships was incredibly important-the Alliance wanted them, if it were possible, to take the attention away from the Death Star for the crucial first few moments. Long enough for the superlaser, inoperable in the eddies of hyperspace, to charge its capacitors and let fly straight through the heart of the Imperial fleet.

_What if we win?_

Crix still didn't know what the Alliance's policy was on any prisoners of war the Ssi-ruuk captured. No-one could be sure that entechment was more than an Imperial myth, but Madine for one knew that a lot rested on that issue being resolved. He did not want to replace one galactic tyranny with another.

Misgivings or not they _were _going into battle. Perfect personnel or not they had to go into battle, had to try to damage the Empire, to give hope back to the galaxy.

The first pre-combat rituals started up alongside him. Despite being aboard what amounted to a floating planetoid with a shield strength previously unheard of, some of his colleagues were preparing for the worst. Crix had learned over the years that there was nothing like a healthy terror of dying for keeping a man alive in combat.

He glanced at the chrono. In less than one minute, the fate of the galaxy would begin to be decided through what amounted, when you dispensed with the political veneer, to mass murder.

_May the Force forgive us_, he thought.


	27. The Battle of Endor: Part I

**Galaxies Apart**

**Twenty-Six**

The Imperial fleet around Endor lay dormant.

Or so it seemed.

Capital ships, apparently strewn randomly across the once-tranquil Endorian system, waited for one signal that would have them in a prime counter-attacking posture within seconds.

The immense wedge of the Super Star Destroyer _Executor _had adopted a highly elliptical orbit, putting it at a distance from the forest moon and from the fleet surrounding it. Why it did this was best known to its commander.

No-one felt like asking him.

The entire fleet was rigged to take care of one ship, and one ship alone. Tarkin had made sure to filter his orders with care; he didn't want his foreknowledge of events to reach the ears of Rebel spies - or, and he felt his stomach twist to think of it, the _Emperor's_ spies inside the Navy.

On the bridge of his beloved Death Star, he smiled thinly. This battle was not going to pan out the way Palpatine expected it to.

As he had made clear to Thrawn, Tarkin was no fool. The prime objective of the Emperor in this little scheme was, surely, to have Tarkin's own Death Star destroyed, martyred for the Imperial cause.

Could it be...? Tarkin frowned as a troubling new thought surfaced. Perhaps the Emperor's desire to have his own Empire suffer a major defeat was the reason that the Death Star's exhaust port weakness, which had been detected long before the Death Star finished completion, had mysteriously never been addressed.

Could it be that Palpatine had _always _intended to sacrifice the Death Star?

That he had deliberately placed a single fatal weakness in her design specifications for the Rebel Alliance to exploit?

Tarkin felt a chill of rage race through his entire body. The plans for the Death Star which revealed the fault had been stolen by the Alliance from right under Imperial noses-had Palpatine set that up, too? Had he placed the schematics with Intelligence for Princess Leia to find, then caused the malfunction in the tracking systems which had almost caused her ship's signal to be lost?

It was brilliant, in a twisted way.

Order the construction of the ultimate weapon, a ship which would seem to the outside galaxy like the Empire in essence; a ball of brute force crushing worlds with a weapon of terrifying power. A ship which would act as a catalyst for the embryonic Alliance, a symbol to rally against, a recruiting boon to its ranks.

And what of Kenobi?

Was it coincidence that Leia's ship had made it as far as Tatooine before being caught, or was the old Jedi Master intended to be the one to lead the Rebellion to glory at Yavin IV?

He was interrupted in this train of thought, mercifully perhaps.

It had begun.

"Sir," a technician called out, "ships are dropping out of hyperspace all over the system."

"By the Force," swore his co-worker, leaning over his shoulder.

"All coming this way," the original technician hesitated, checking, "none of them ours."

"How many ships, Lieutenant?"

"Over one hundred. More are coming in. Sir, it's an entire _Fleet_-"

A ripple of shock passed through the bridge. Tarkin knew the same ripple must be passing throughout the entire Imperial fleet.

_No_. It couldn't be. The Rebellion had one ship. _One ship_. His entire preparations had been based around at most twenty ships, but primarily at the second Death Star itself.

Where had they found so many vessels? Had someone discovered the resting place of the Katana Fleet?

He forced himself to be calm. There was nothing to be done about it now except deal with it. "How long before they're in range, Lieutenant?" he inquired.

"Less than thirty seconds."

"Open a channel to the _Executor_."

Bare seconds later he was staring into that helmeted visage. "You've seen them?"

"Inform the fleet to begin preparations for battle, Grand Moff," and with that, Vader signed off, the viewscreen flaring black.

"Lieutenant Myrkr," he turned to the newly appointed bridge officer-an alien who, were it not for his pale skin tone and pale blue eye pigment, could be said to have been a dead ringer for a certain ex-Fleet Admiral Thrawn.

_Myrkr_ had been Thrawn's own choice for a pseudonym; as far as Tarkin could tell the word seemed to hold some mysterious significance for him.

Having Thrawn here on the bridge, in some capacity, served to assuage any sudden upsurge of fear he was experiencing at this abrupt revision of the odds. Thrawn was the one factor the Rebellion would not be counting upon and, should the necessary time arrive, Tarkin would not hesitate to ask the former Admiral for tactical advice.

"Activate the Interdictor Cruisers," Tarkin ordered.

Lieutenant Myrkr operated his station with commendable efficiency. "Aye, sir…" he said.

On the viewscreen, Tarkin watched the ring of Interdictor Cruisers advance as one, each attracting several larger ships to act as protective cover.

He was going to enjoy this.

---------------------------------------------------------

Right from the moment he was thrown viciously forward at his station, Crix Madine knew something had gone seriously wrong.

The _Alderaan _shouldn't have dropped out of hyperspace for another twenty seconds, at least. The Ssi-ruuk ships were meant to be the advance guard, there to catch the initial reflexive Imperial parry, to allow the _Alderaan _to drop to sublight behind them as they advanced.

_Interdictor Cruisers_ was the first thought that screamed into his mind.

The second, just as terrifying, was _trap…_

---------------------------------------------------------

To Tarkin's left and right subordinates screamed new statistics at him. The Empire's advantage had been totally eradicated by the scale of the Ssi-ruuk intervention. Their capital ships looked to be a match for his own Star Destroyers.

If Imperial losses were going to continue at the rate they had already begun, he was looking at a full-scale bloodbath.

"Grand Moff!" someone cried, "we've lost all transmissions from the _Inferno _and the _Wraith_!"

He spared a few seconds to curse extravagantly. "Tell the Fleet to plug the gaps, damn them!" he snapped, flushing in fury, "I don't want those reptiles to breach our flanks again, do you hear?"

As that lieutenant busied himself communicating the instructions, another piped up.

"Sir…we've got the _Palpat..._uh, the _Alderaan _- on our scans. It's preparing to fire on the Star Destroyers closest to its current position."

Tarkin bared his teeth. It had worked.

It had been Thrawn's idea. Acting upon the common misconception for those glimpsing its scale for the first time to mistake the Death Star for a small moon, Thrawn had theorised that it should be possible to trick enemy scans into thinking the station was nothing more than a large asteroid composed of metallic alloy.

Tarkin had thrown his entire crew into making the necessary preparations. A few hours ago, they had moved the Death Star slowly and carefully into the asteroid field a few million miles beyond Endor's orbit of its parent planet.

They had _cloaked_ the second-biggest ship in the galaxy.

"Chamber Master!" he bellowed, "Commence primary ignition!"

Tarkin sat forward in his command chair, as the deck beneath him began to throb with power.

Not long now.

---------------------------------------------------------

Madine whooped with joy. "There goes the _Wraith_!" he hollered to Ackbar, "The Ssi-ruuk just caught her with her shields down. She's dead in space."

"Excellent news, Commander," Ackbar murmured.

"Something wrong, Admiral?"

"We seem to be missing one rather large guest."

Madine frowned, and then realised Ackbar was right. Tarkin's Death Star was nowhere to be seen. How had he not noticed? Maybe he'd underestimated the Mon Calamarian's tactical savvy after all.

"Can't say we'll miss them!" he cried out joyously. Their one threat, not present? He could have punched the air. A cheer went up from the bridge crew, obviously thinking along similar lines.

Madine was a commando. He'd never been in a full-scale military engagement before; it was not exactly an undercover operative's field of expertise. All his life he'd broke bones and rules to prevent a situation like this from even arising…and now, thanks to the Alliance not being overburdened with command-level staff, he was frantically engaged in operating controls and straining lungs to bark updates and orders.

He watched no less than twelve Ssi-ruuk cruisers pound a Star Destroyer to rubble. The superstructure of the Imperial vessel snapped in two as he looked on; plasma fires and reactor cores spewed their wrath into the uncaring vacuum.

The _Executor_, attracted by the death of a Destroyer, swooped on the Ssi-ruuk ships. Madine's mouth dried as the Super Star Destroyer simply obliterated craft after craft, its turbolaser fire lancing through peppered and laboured shielding, ion cannons carving holes for the terrible light to sear into.

"Gunner!" Ackbar commanded, "Target the bridge of the _Executor _and fire!" that order received, Ackbar wheeled his chair around to face aft, "How's our superlaser coming along?" he demanded.

The Chamber Master spared a few seconds from his work to reply, "The unexpected jolt to sublight played hell with the ignition sequencers, Admiral. We'll need a few moments to reinitialise the system."

Ackbar's proboscis, a remnant of his species' aquatic prehistory, waggled in fury. "We may not _have_ a 'few moments'. I need that superlaser _now_."

The Chamber Master had already turned back to his readouts. Madine admired the man's nerve. "I'm working on it," was all the concession Ackbar was likely to get from the technician.

With a muttered curse the Admiral left him to it.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Stand by…"

Tarkin's hand had raised to his lips. He began to pull on them, staring fixedly ahead. The deck's vibration had built into a full-scale rumble.

This was no Main Stage beam they were firing-it was a Full Intensity blast, and one which would surely rip the _Palpatine_-no, the _Alderaan_ (his lips would have curled at the sentimentality, were they not otherwise engaged) asunder.

"Sir…"

Instinctively he knew that _sir _bode nothing good. "Yes?"

"I think one of the Ssi-ruuk ships has spotted us, sir."

On the bridge all eyes turned to the main viewscreen, currently displaying the chaos of a space battle. Tarkin's gaze was attracted to a huge Ssi-ruuk vessel, only half the size of the _Executor _but immense in its own right nonetheless.

It was disengaging from the main conflict.

Heading their way.

---------------------------------------------------------

Aboard the _Executor's _bridge, a luckless lieutenant took a very deep and calming breath.

"Lord Vader...?"

Within an instant the Sith Master was at his side. He could hear the sound of that infamous respiration, feel that aura of danger the man projected as effortlessly as he could crush a larynx for bad news. The lieutenant tried not to dwell on that.

"What is it?" Vader asked.

"Sir…I think of the larger Ssi-ruuk ships is on an intercept course with our Death Star. If you-"

Vader brushed him aside, stared at his console readouts. The lieutenant could have sworn that Vader's breathing increased in rapidity as he absorbed what the readouts were telling him. He watched as Vader strode away from Navigation and back to his command chair.

"Bring us about and lock headings with that ship. Destroy it. Destroy it _now_."

"Aye, Lord Vader, sir," the helmsman gasped, sweat stinging his eyes.

Adeptly the man brought the massive vessel around and gunned the throttle open, taking them soaring past countless Imperial and Ssi-ruuvi ships, locked in deadly combat.

A few better organised Ssi-ruuk vessels managed to put together a sustained burst to the _Executor's_ port shields as they passed by; she rocked and groaned in protest, but held steady.

The Ssi-ruuk ship _H'Ruhg'Kt _loomed ahead. They were indeed moving with all speed toward the asteroid field, a tactically worthless area...unless, say, one were interested in the pseudo-asteroid which lay within.

The _Executor _rattled, more alarmingly this time. Vader had to clasp the arm of his command chair to maintain his perfect balance.

"Another two of the large Ssi-ruuk ships on our tail, sir!" a young hotshot from Tactical hollered by way of explanation.

"Inform the nearest Imperial ships to break off their current assignment and rid us of the reptiles."

"Aye, sir! I have seven Star Destroyers coming this way!" the head of Communication affirmed.

_Boom_.

"Aft shields down to sixty-four percent!"

Vader shook with fury. "Increase speed. Release twelve proton torpedoes from the port and starboard launchers. Remove any guidance protocols from their onboard computers."

Removing guidance protocols from proton torpedos meant they would continue moving on their launch vector for all eternity. Thus, on any other ship, that command would have been met at the very least with a doubtful _sir…_?

Not this ship.

Vader's screens showed the torpedoes jettison from their launchers, innate and useless. The Ssi-ruuvi ships could easily elude them.

Vader called the Dark Side to him.

_Saw _the torpedoes.

_Saw _the Ssi-ruuk ships.

The power of the Sith had never failed him. It never would. One after the other, Vader caught the torpedoes in the Force, channeled his own hatred and aggression to propel them with more accuracy and more deadly speed than any circuitry could ever hope to match.

The twelve balls of destructive energy lined up one after the other, perfectly symmetrical in their flight.

He hurled the first torpedo against the shields surrounding the nearest Ssi-ruuk ship's bridge. The shields flickered for a moment, as shields of this configuration did in the case of a direct impact. In another instant the ship would compensate by rerouting power from the remaining shielded areas. The gap would close.

From half a million miles away, Darth Vader propelled six proton torpedoes through the split-second gap before that happened.

The massive Ssi-ruuk vessel, its bridge a ruin, began to spiral hopelessly out of control, Explosions peppered its surface before finally it blossomed into flame, catching its sister vessel amidships and weakening their shields...

Vader made sure the six remaining torpedos couldn't miss.

Two soundless explosions lit the expanse of space around the _Executor. _Vader felt the Force ripple out from the deaths, the anger and hatred and betrayal of the people who had perished pouring into him, renewing him, nourishing him.

And he felt something else.

_Relief..._

So. The rumours of entechment were true...

---------------------------------------------------------

"We're clear to fire, sir. The superlaser is fully charged," the Chamber Master informed him.

Beneath his feet the deck _rumbled_; the superlaser's energy was being forced to circle the Death Star's cores. If he didn't fire the superlaser within sixty seconds or so, the containment fields would collapse under the strain. The Death Star would be destroyed by its own weapon.

The Ssi-ruuk ship bore down on them still, drawing nearer to firing range with every moment.

That wasn't the problem, however, for behind the Ssi-ruuk ship, in a direct line between the Death Star and the Alliance Star _Alderaan_, was the Super Star Destroyer _Executor_.

If Tarkin fired now, he would completely obliterate the Empire's flagship…and take Vader with it. Fate had decreed it so.

Had any other Imperial vessel been in that position Tarkin felt sure he'd have been vindicated in deciding to fire regardless.

But not the _Executor_. Not with its crew comprised of the finest the Empire had to offer. Not with Vader a potentially vital player in the coup. Bringing down a Sith Lord like the Emperor would be no easy prospect. Doing it with Vader's help might be the only way.

There were other options. Tarkin could have given up on targeting the _Alderaan _now, and used the superlaser to cut a huge swathe through the Alliance fleet. But as soon as that happened, he would blow cover. The Rebels would know where his Death Star lurked, and the _Alderaan _had a much faster charging rate than did his own ship.

His hands were completely tied until the _Executor _managed to disable that damned Ssi-ruuk scrapheap.

The Death Star shuddered. Only a little, and barely perceptible over its own internal rumblings, but it shuddered nonetheless.

"The Ssi-ruuk ship _H'Ruhg'Kt _is in range, sir. It's firing."

They had been detected.

---------------------------------------------------------

Wedge Antilles let out a long, relieved string of curses as his X-Wing escaped unscathed from a short and intense duel with two TIE Interceptors. He swung the snubfighter around and surveyed the area for any sign of Imperial reinforcements.

Unable to help himself, he spared a fraction of a second to simply gape at the sight.

As far as the eye could see, laser fire lit up space. Whether it spewed from the huge, distinctive shape of the Imperial Star Destroyers or the equally massive, more irregular Ssi-ruuk craft, turbolaser batteries and ion launchers spewed forth thousands, millions of lances of their deadly payload, illuminating the Endor system from within, sprinkled here and there with the fire-red trail marking the wake of a proton torpedo.

It was a battle he'd never imagined he would see. Making that daring raid on the shipyards at Sluis Van, he and Winter had considered it a suicide mission. When they'd accomplished their goal, they and Rogue Squadron had awaited the wrath of the Empire to come down upon them.

By some miracle, they had avoided capture, and ditched their craft in the forests around the perimeter of the yards. In the Imperial panic that had been rife, somehow they'd slipped back through the net and managed to get passage on a transport offworld, meeting up with one of the few Alliance cruisers making its way to Endor.

He came back to the present. No doubt. This battle was one for the history books.

_Let's hope I don't join it there_, Wedge thought grimly, as his R2 unit screamed a danger warning. Three TIE Interceptors had just locked in a pursuit course.

The vacation was over.

Three Interceptors...Wedge felt his heartbeat speed up. He was a good pilot, there was no doubt about that. But he didn't know if he was _that _good.

As the first vectored in from the left he sacrificed his two proton torpedoes, while pulling his X-Wing into a rolling corkscrew dive. An explosion and a _bleep _of satisfaction from his astromech told him that he could scratch one TIE.

That left two, and he was down to lasers only. One, coming at him from below, strafed his ventral shields to extinction. He was thrown against his restraints; a prolonged wail from his Artoo unit and the briefest of glances at his readouts confirmed his suspicions that his hyperdrive was history.

The third TIE came at him all guns blazing. He yanked the X-Wing up, dropping his tail and routing all power to the forward screens. The loop complete, he opened up with all batteries on the second Interceptor, caught square in the middle of trying to catch him broadside.

Another fireball bloomed in space.

Two down, one to-

His X-Wing began to fall apart around him. The remaining Interceptor hadn't exactly rested on its laurels while he'd dealt with his wing-mate. A sustained burst of turbolaser fire had crippled his X-Wing beyond all repair.

Wedge saw with a strange, detached interest that the Interceptor had disabled his port and starboard engines. Drifting in space, he was a sitting duck for the next volley of laser fire from the TIE.

So this was it. Idly Wedge wondered what Winter was doing now. Probably back on one of the cruisers, no-one around her suspecting the depth of her talents. Weird...he'd been working up the courage to ask her out for the last eighteen months. Now he'd never get the chance. She was too good for him, anyway. A woman like her, and a snubfighter pilot like him…

He'd led a fairly charmed life, he had to admit; that it had lasted this far was little short of a miracle in itself. After all, he was one of only a handful of pilots to escape the trench run with his life-

_I can't stay with you_.

The words rose up, regular as always. He suspected they'd have haunted him for the rest of his days. They could use them as his epitaph. For a snubfighter pilot, he could think of none better. He smiled wanly.

In the sluggish reality he was about to leave, he watched as the TIE fired.

No…

Watched as it _was fired upon_.

The TIE Interceptor blew apart, laser fire tearing it to shreds before his dazed gaze. His first notion - that one of his wingmates in Rogue Squadron had managed to get there in time - was dashed as he saw what his saviour had been.

A Ssi-ruuk robotic snubfighter had saved his life.

Powered, if the rumours were true, by the forcibly removed soul of an intelligent being. Had a life form been forced to die so that he could live?

Right at this minute, the rest of his life unfurling before him once again, he didn't care.

"Captain Antilles…" his transmitter squawked. Wedge saw one of the few Cruisers controlled by the Alliance bank to his position.

Winter's cruiser.

"We're going to tractor you to a shuttle bay. Stand by."

Try as he might, Wedge couldn't find the strength to reply.

---------------------------------------------------------

Admiral Ackbar was not happy.

The _Alderaan_, though surrounded by Star Destroyers, wasn't in any real danger…yet. She had possibly the largest single shield ever constructed around a spacegoing vessel, and it could sustain phenomenal amounts of punishment.

Nonetheless, that wasn't stopping the Empire from trying. Turbolaser fire skated across that shimmering curtain of energy that comprised their shield in frightening quantities. Madine he doubted if any ship in history had been expected to soak up this much.

Thank God for Imperial ingenuity. Most of the Empire's designers and scientists were still onboard, and were being...if not exactly _forced_ to co-operate, merely informed that their new home was the biggest and most appealing target in the known universe for the might of the Galactic Empire.

Most of them had seemed quite keen to keep the _Alderaan _in good working order, when it was put in those terms.

"Where is the _Executor_?" Ackbar snapped.

"Bearing one-seven-six mark three."

"_Where_ is my superlaser?" Ackbar demanded.

"Almost there, Admiral," the Chamber Master announced, ignoring the fact that Ackbar was practically dissecting him with the force of his glare.

Madine's attention went back to his tactical displays. The battle was going about as well as could be expected, maybe even a little better than he'd dared hope. The Ssi-ruuk were holding their own and more against their Imperial foes. Madine wished he could feel better about that.

A soft _be-beep _alerted him to another display. _Maybe I spoke too soon_, he thought, as the computer told him the _Executor _had just taken out two of the larger Ssi-ruuk ships. According to Crix's tactical readouts Vader's personal killer was heading toward another of the large Ssi-ruuk cruisers. Both were headed into the asteroid field at the outskirts of the forest moon's gravitational influence, toward a large asteroid in particular.

_Missing Death Star..._

_Large asteroid..._

He felt his stomach drop.

Madine looked up from his displays. Somehow, perhaps through some buried command instinct, Ackbar had sensed his alarm. He was looking right at him.

"We have a problem," Madine told him.

"How big a problem?" Ackbar replied, not turning from his battle scans.

"Death Star sized," Madine replied. "Admiral, we're all going to die."


	28. The Battle of Endor: Part II

**Galaxies Apart**

**Twenty-Seven**

Thirty seconds.

The Death Star could only keep a lid on its superlaser charge for another half-minute before it had to let go or explode.

Every single crewmember on the Death Star's bridge was leaning imperceptibly forward with each passing second, eyes glued to the viewscreen.

"Get me the _Executor_!" Tarkin said, in a whisper dripping with authority.

"Transmissions are jammed, sir," the comm officer gulped. "Ssi-ruuk ships are putting out dampening fields. We can't get through."

"_Move_, damn you..." Tarkin whispered, watching the _Executor _chug along at what seemed little more than a crawl, turbolaser batteries lancing at Ssi-ruuk shields.

The power buildup around them intensified yet further. What had started off as a comforting _thrummmm _of the superlaser coming to life was now becoming a deafening shriek.

Tarkin had almost forgotten about his newest addition to his bridge staff. Despite being out of mind, however, Lieutenant Myrkr had in fact been buried in projections and data displays for the last few minutes.

Yes. _Yes..._

"Grand Moff," he said. "I have an idea."

---------------------------------------------------------

"You're telling me that we can't move this ship and charge the superlaser at the same time?"

"No, you could," the Chamber Master replied, "for about three thousandths of a second, before the tertiary reactor cores went into meltdown and we exploded."

"The first Death Star could do this. Aren't we meant to be more advanced?" Ackbar responded.

"We're meant to have fifty thousand technicians overseeing the reactor cores. We've got one hundred twenty."

Ackbar's bulbous eyes looked as if they would leap from their sockets. "Then prepare the ship for evasive action."

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, the _Alderaan _began to move.

---------------------------------------------------------

Inside a thousand Ssi-ruuk snubfighers, a thousand Ssi-ruuk computer systems and battle droids and reactor cores, something was happening.

Voices were coming together to speak to one new voice. One new voice asking the same questions, over and over.

_Who are you_

_I am...I was...Nyss Detroe. I had a son...where is he? Where is my son? I was out - they asked us all to go outside and l-l-line up and then they came and_

_Your son is dead, Nyss._

_they took us and oh, oh God I felt their m-m-machine - it went over me and t-t-through me and I was lost...lost - WHERE IS MY SON??? WHERE IS DARYN???_

_They took you. Him, too. They used you to power their machines. You're nothing but a memory of a person, soon to fade._

_What can I do?_

_Make them remember, Nyss. Make them pay for taking your son._

_Who are you?_

_I am another like you. Die well._

The snubfighters found new targets. Their mother ships. Their allies. Each other. All sought death, and all received it.

Inside the computer systems, circuits fused. Power spiked and soundless screams fused relays and fouled up subroutines.

Entechment, Darth Vader mused, is not a power source one should employ when a Sith Lord is nearby.

Every Ssi-ruuk ship within a million miles of the _Executor _began to explode from within, including the massive vessel currently troubling Tarkin's Death Star.

But the _Executor _remained where it was.

---------------------------------------------------------

Tarkin points a pale white digit at the viewscreen. The finger shakes with fury and his voice trembles with adrenaline.

"_Fire_," he says.

The line of concentric capacitors at the heart of the Death Star glows with green fire one more. This time, finally, their loop is interrupted. They plunge at the speed of light down many individual passageways, all double-shielded.

At the exterior capacitor they circle now. First, one reaches out a tendril and earths itself at a spot some two kilometres away, a region treated with neutralising radiation by subsystems earlier in the process. Then a second joins the first, and the white-jade nucleus glows more fervently.

And a third. And a fourth. And a fifth.

By now the nucleus is a pulsating white singularity, a stable eye in the incredible power struggle being fought across the Main Stage beams.

A sixth.

The technicians standing at the power relays, no further than a kilometre or so from this incredible eddy in space-time, raise their hands to cover their faces; even squeezing their eyes shut provides little protection against the terrible intensity of the superlaser.

On the night side of Endor, a new star appears, a tiny green flame.

A seventh.

The superlaser blast leaps away.

The eyes of the Imperial fleet turn to follow. On the bridge of the _Executor_, Darth Vader stares at the beam, leaping toward them.

_So like a lightsaber._

The superlaser blast flies straight and true, not deviating from its assigned trajectory.

It misses the _Executor_.

It clears the entire battle. Not a single Ssi-ruuvi craft comes near to being threatened by its power. The beam sears on, and now it has passed even the green orb of Endor itself.

Vader and his crew, and the entire Imperial Navy, regard it in stunned silence as it roars on harmlessly into space.

---------------------------------------------------------

The massive cheer from the bridge crew of the _Alderaan _was echoed by Crix Madine. He'd felt sure that Tarkin had decided to sacrifice Vader's ship for the sake of taking them out. The _Alderaan _hadn't been able to get out of range…and when the superlaser blast had licked out…

They'd missed. Now that his initial reflex euphoria was over, Madine had to ask himself: _how?_

He sat back at his station. The Death Star rocked just a little; it seemed that the rest of the combatants had been likewise caught up in the drama, and were taking some time to come to terms with what had happened.

He registered dimly that the Ssi-ruuk ships were organising a major push in the confusion. The Empire's forces appeared dulled, driven listless by the stark failure.

He called up a display of the shot. It was still going strong; it would be many, many light-years before something that powerful lost its integrity.

He projected a course. It almost looked like the beam was actually going to hit the Endorian sun, a large and ponderous specimen.

No...surely Tarkin wasn't crazy enough to think that a superlaser blast into the heart of a star could induce a supernova?

The _Alderaan_, sluggish at the moment, wouldn't stand a chance of getting out of the way in time. It made sense, in a horrible way-

No. He breathed a sigh of relief. The superlaser was going to miss the star too - not by much, but enough.

"How long before they can charge up for another blast?" Ackbar demanded of the Chamber Master.

"A few minutes, Admiral. At least."

Ackbar made the aquatic equivalent of a purr. "Excellent," he said. "All stop. Bring us around to target that 'asteroid'. Charge the superlaser."

The crew busied themselves carrying out this order. Crix did his share, but even as he worked a strange discomfort itched at the back of his mind. It didn't make sense - how did the Empire go from brilliance in disguising the Death Star as an asteroid to such carelessness in completely missing the biggest target in the galaxy with the least discriminatory weapon the galaxy had ever seen?

He had a bad feeling about this.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Ssi-ruuk communications blackout has collapsed, sir. Their systems are experiencing severe disruptions. We've got a channel to the Fleet."

The glare of the console screen shone on Tarkin's craggy face. He smiled savagely.

"Put me through," he ordered, striding back to his command chair, preparing to make his address to the Imperial forces gathered.

"Channel open."

"This is Grand Moff Tarkin to all Imperial vessels. Repeat: This is Grand Moff Tarkin, to all Imperial ships in the Endor system," sure of their attention now, he went on, "break off your engagements. I say again, all Imperial craft must _disengage_. This is an official order of retreat. Proceed to new co-ordinates with all speed."

Satisfied, he nodded to the communications officer. The young lieutenant commander put the recording on a repeating loop; all Imperial craft would get the message, sooner or later.

"Incoming transmission. It's Lord Vader."

Ah. He'd been expecting this. He nodded for the call to be put through on the main viewscreen.

And prepared to talk himself out of strangulation.

---------------------------------------------------------

Crix Madine couldn't believe what he was seeing. Around him the news was spreading all over the bridge. People began to murmur among themselves, hardly daring to accept the obvious themselves.

The Empire was retreating.

He watched as another Star Destroyer made the jump to hyperspace. And another. And another.

Confused, Madine consulted his tactical displays. This wasn't a small withdrawal of ships from a danger area…this was a full-scale pull-out. Everywhere he looked the red dots representing Imperial ships were winking out, as if someone had pulled the plug.

"We won," someone said, loudly enough for it to carry.

The words were filled with astonishment. Even with the power of a Death Star behind them, even with the Ssi-ruuk aid, the Rebellion had entered this battle expecting to lose. By now defeat was almost a tradition. The Alliance had never known victory.

In the euphoria on the _Alderaan's _bridge, Crix failed to notice a small flashing light on his console.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Why are my forces retreating, Tarkin?" Vader asked. He was seconds from committing murder, and everyone knew it.

"This channel is not secure," was all Tarkin would say.

"I have alternatives," Vader replied.

And with that, he plunged deep into Tarkin's mind.

It was impossible to hide anything from a Sith with Vader's powers. Fortunately for his sake, Tarkin didn't bother. He would have preferred another method- _any _other method - but this was the time and the place, he had judged, to tell his great rival about the conspiracy headed by Palpatine.

Whether Vader would side with his troops or his Master, Tarkin couldn't say for sure.

What he was sure of was that his life depended on the outcome of this gamble.

Allowing Vader access to his mind speeded the process. He felt Vader's cold fingers pry, rummage. Felt the Sith Lord recoil in shock as he digested what he found. Summoning his reserves of concentration, Tarkin tried to communicate.

_Will you side with us?_

The itch in his mind vanished. With a jolt Tarkin found himself fully conscious again. He sucked in a steadying breath, a hand absently straying to a nearby bulkhead to support him.

The experience of violation was intense, more so than he could have imagined. He had no desire to repeat it. A shiver passed down him as he imagined what the victim of one of the Emperor's Force killings went through before he died.

Forcing his voice into action, he said, "You understand, then?"

"Proceed. We have _much_ to discuss, Grand Moff. And soon."

As the screen went black, Tarkin was caught between elation and dread. The day he looked forward to an intimate chat with Darth Vader was a long way away. "Helm, get us out of here."

---------------------------------------------------------

The Death Star had pulled out. So had the Super Star Destroyer, Vader's personal ship. This was no trick, no show, no half-measure.

The Empire had given up. The Alliance had won.

Crix Madine looked at his screen, and saw not one single red dot. The Imperials had run. Nothing remained of their presence…save their wounded. The Endorian system was now littered with the rudderless, ruined hulks of Star Destroyers, now little more than tombs.

The statistics confirmed what everyone suspected; the Empire had lost today. Three Imperial ships had perished for every Ssi-ruuk craft.

Madine wished the _Alderaan _had had more of a part to play in the proceedings. All she'd done, truth be told, was sit there and soak up the combined firepower of about half the assembled Imperial Fleet. That didn't matter, though. Without her, this battle would never have happened.

The _Alderaan_, built for destruction and renamed after one of the greatest war crimes in history, had just kickstarted the quest for galactic freedom.

"Well done, everyone," he heard Ackbar say. Looking up, he met the eyes of his CO for a brief second. Ackbar gave him a nod, which Madine returned in kind.

"Open a channel to the Ssi-ruuk command ship," Ackbar ordered.

A moment later the entire bridge turned their necks to sneak a look at one of the reptilians. Madine had trouble telling one from the other, but this one was rather easy to identify; he had prominent blue scales.

"Greetings," Ackbar nodded. "I don't believe we've spoken."

"No," the alien admitted. "My immediate superiors had their ships destroyed in battle."

Ackbar bowed his head. "My sympathies for your loss."

Bluescale made a clicking sound, which the translating program could do nothing with. "They died in the making of a glorious victory."

Crix tuned out of the rest of the conversation - diplomatic niceties and the like - as he finally noticed there was a flashing red light on his console. A B232 alert.

"Jackson."

The Navigation officer chuckled softly. Craning his head to look at Crix, he raised his eyebrows in a gesture that, unmistakably, said _what do you want now, amateur? Can't you work your own station?_

"Can it, wiseass," Crix said, neatly cutting him off before he could put those gestures into words, "I'm getting a B232."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah...?"

Madine put it down to the elation of victory. "...so what _is_ a B232?"

Jackson scratched his head. "Something to do with Navigation. Long-range I think?"

That didn't make sense. Madine said so. "Navigation? Why am I receiving it? Shouldn't this be your area?"

To Jackson's credit, all trace of joviality vanished. "No. It's a tactical alert. The sensors have picked something they think is a threat..."

Instead of answering directly, Jackson returned to his console and brought up identifying protocols.

"I see it too," he said softly, "it isn't reading as a ship. Madine-" and fear entered his voice, "-this is crazy. The damn thing's coming straight at us at a phenomenal speed. Too fast to be a torpedo. Almost like a-"

The word hung unspoken between them for a moment. "Laser," Madine filled in, throat constricting.

They locked gazes for an instant.

"_Admiral..!"_

Ackbar broke off his pleasantries. "What is it?"

"The superlaser blast. It's back."

"_Back?_"

"Yes."

Ackbar might have demanded further explanation. Had he, Madine would have told him that the Death Star had deliberately fired close to the local star so that the energy would be deflected, bent by the gravity of the massive stellar body, to slingshot around the star and be redirected back on a new trajectory.

The Endorian Sun had been used to fire a superlaser around a corner.

Ackbar didn't ask. He knew there was no time for explanations.

"Twenty-five seconds to impact."

"Get us moving, _now_," Ackbar told the helm.

"Superlaser batteries are charged. We'll have to turn them off before-"

Ackbar spun to face the Chamber Master. "Deactivate them!"

"We won't have enough time-"

"DO IT!" Ackbar snapped. The Chamber Master reached for his console, moved to turn the capacitors from open and charging to closed and stable.

"Stop!" Ackbar suddenly blurted. He ignored the frantic expressions around him and addressed the Chamber Master again, "How long before we can fire?"

"Twenty seconds."

"Fifteen seconds to impact," Madine informed the bridge.

"Reroute ALL POWER to those batteries. Do you understand?" the Admiral demanded. "Life support, artificial gravity, _everything_. And commence primary ignition, _now_."

"Aye, sir," the Chamber Master obeyed the order, eyes bulging. "It should get us another few seconds."

"Ten," Madine snapped.

"Helm," Ackbar spun again, "visual on that superlaser."

The screen activated. The sight of a superlaser in full flight was enough to strike fear in the hardest of hearts. It scythed across space, causing the magnification factor in the top-left corner of the screen to spiral backwards.

Space around it shrank back in terror; on the night side, even the day side of Endor the furry, oppressed natives cowered on their knees, convinced that this was the end.

"Target the blast," Ackbar commanded.

"Seven seconds…" Madine continued his countdown. "Six…"

"How's our laser coming along?" Ackbar's voice was supernaturally calm.

"Ninety percent!"

"Five…"

"_FIRE!_"

The massive structure of the _Alderaan _heaved and shook as, deep within its bowels, the component Main Stage beams were released. Unlike the Mk1 reactor, this model had no delay between reactor prime and firing. The tertiary beams met, flowed, coalesced, stabilised, compounded-

-_released_-

The massive laser, a deep red, lanced out.

On the bridge, the crew felt their hearts stop beating as, for two seconds that seemed an eternity, the blasts screamed toward each other, green and red behemoths on a collision course. Two forces the likes of which the galaxy had never known.

And there was _impact._

A ball of pure energy formed, seething and roaring, reaching and growing. The forces inside it fought for dominance and inertia. It was composed of pure chaos, and one of the most unforgettable sights in the universe.

And one of the shortest.

The ball exploded.

"We've got a level twelve shockwav-" the helmsman began, but didn't get any further.

The shockwave hit. The Death Star was tossed aside, thrown to the stellar winds, its outer layers burned away in the fury of the shockwave. On the fringes of the wave many Ssi-ruuk cruisers, not protected by the shield or the sheer scale of the _Alderaan_, were torn to ribbons.

Artificial gravity, already sapped in the charging, failed altogether. Madine watched as the ceiling became the floor with amazing speed and violence, forcing the breath from his body and causing him to cry out in pain.

The momentum carried him on, into a mass of bodies compressed by the incredible inertia of the _Alderaan_. An elbow to his ear almost sent him spinning into unconsciousness; he would have welcomed the escape.

On Endor, the Ewoks were proven to be correct. Despite not being in the path of the blast, the shockwave produced by the merged superlaser blasts ripped outward and through the fabric of their planet, stripping all life from its surface.

After what seemed an eternity, the _Alderaan_ crested the wave and it passed, rippling out into the Endorian system, causing massive destruction throughout the remaining planets.

One by one, the _Alderaan_'s systems came back on-line. The planetoid re-orientated itself on its axis, restoring floors and ceilings to their original designations. Crix Madine watched the floor rise up to claim him, and wished for the sweet release of oblivion.

His wish was granted.


	29. Vader vs Sidious

**Galaxies Apart**

**Twenty-Eight**

Site Zero's docking bay could have swallowed a Star Destroyer without chewing. Guiding the _Falcon _into its cavernous interior, Han Solo felt the same kind of intimidation he had tried to hide when the Death Star had trapped his pride and joy like a fly in amber. This time, however, he was guiding his ship in of his own accord.

He'd gathered from fragmented conversations with Kyp that this place was older than the Old Republic. Back on Corellia, they'd measured _everything_ in comparison to the tenure of the Old Republic. That something could be almost unimaginably older than that…

The _Falcon _settled on the docking bay floor. No more than a hundred feet away, he could see the _Privateer _mirroring their manoeuvre.

They had arrived.

---------------------------------------------------------

Over one hundred light-years from the life-bearing orb of Endor, the Imperial Fleet hung in space.

Those battle-damaged ships leaking plasma and venting gases now had construction droids large and small clinging to their hulls like remoras, repairing the wear and tear and battle.

The Imperial Fleet was licking its wounds.

Even the major ships, those given free reign to roam in the madness, had not escaped without their share of damage. The Death Star and the _Executor_ had their fair share of healing ships. Both craft now lay motionless, within a thousand kilometres of each other.

A solitary shuttle was released from the Super Star Destroyer to the battle moon. It was not the only small transport to make the journey. As well as the usual traffic of parts and personnel, ten deluxe shuttlecraft models, those reserved for the officer-class, made the trip to the Death Star.

Another conference of Grand Moff Tarkin's counter-conspiracy group had been called by its founding member.

And this time, Darth Vader had been extended an invitation.

This meeting would make our break their group. Tarkin knew it, and he was not alone in arriving at that conclusion. Assembled around his conference table were the most senior and influential military minds in the Navy. Vader's arrival was imminent.

There was not much in the way of smalltalk to be had. In fact, the nerves were beginning to tell.

"Tarkin," Grand Admiral Tiernat said impatiently, "how much longer do we have to wait? I am beginning to suspect you enjoy these secret councils."

"Patience, Grand Admiral."

"First you have us retreat, disgrace ourselves…now this façade."

Distressingly, there were few raised objections to this accusation from the rest of the assembly. Moff Lursa came to his defence.

"Your command ships, Tiernat, as I recall were not distinguishing themselves on the battlefield to any degree."

"I did as best I could," Tiernat hissed, furious, "perhaps had our much-vaunted spy network provided any sort of clue to the extent of the Ssi-ruuk involvement…I might have done better."

The new barb stung. Tarkin had no answer to it. His failure to be aware of the Ssi-ruuk ached at him.

"It was an oversight," Tarkin admitted. "Yet even you must realise, Grand Admiral, that the sheer scale of their aid to the Rebels could _never _have gone unnoticed by Imperial Intelligence. The information was, I have no doubt, deliberately withheld from us."

That did shut Tiernat up.

The doors to the conference room _swished _open, the sound of nine people drawing a nervous breath signalled that _he_ had arrived.

Tarkin turned to face him. It had been Vader who'd alerted him to the presence of this conspiracy, after all. But you could never trust a Dark Jedi.

For all he knew Vader could find it advantageous to go running to his precious Master at the earliest opportunity. And if he did…well…Tarkin had options.

"Darth," he nodded.

"Grand Moff," returned Vader, sitting down at the opposite end of the long table. Thus it began.

"Lord Vader," Tarkin plunged in straight away, "you remember, of course, bringing to me your concerns over an unauthorised diversion of Imperial forces on the planet Ryxx?"

Vader didn't answer. Tarkin went on.

"After our meeting I took it upon myself to discover what exactly was going on. My contacts throughout the Navy reported similar incidents across Imperial space; not only that, but my own Death Star was the focus of a huge salvage operation, the purpose of which would only be alluded at, even by my most highly-placed operatives."

Tarkin waited for his words to sink in. He'd waited until now to reveal this, but the time was right.

"An artefact was removed from this ship. It was later taken to a secret location and experimented on, aboard the Star Destroyer _Jurisdiction_. The vessel was on tactical detail to the Outer Rim. Not long after, the _Jurisdiction _was removed from active duty and posted to Sluis Van to attend the unveiling of the Death Star. A move so puzzling and embarassing that her captain, the legendary Captain Binyameen, filed an official protest."

Tarkin pressed a button, and a man's voice rumbled over the table's speakers. "-I cannot believe," the unmistakable tones of Binyameen grumbled, "that the _Jurisdiction_ can be a viable choice for this duty. This protest may fall on deaf ears, but I feel I must make my feelings known."

The recording stopped.

"Two days later," Tarkin said softly, "the _Jurisdiction _was destroyed in the Rebel attack. She was the sole Imperial casualty larger than an AT-AT."

He paused to let the implications sink in.

"I have already discovered that the Rebels hiding on Sluis Van had solicited help from inside Imperial ranks. Far from the co-operation ending at Crix Madine's traitorous commando unit, the corruption went much deeper. Plans, credits, even small craft had been making their way from the Empire to the Alliance for _months_ previous to Sluis Van."

Still Vader was silent.

"Since all of Imperial Intelligence's most senior commanders report directly to Emperor Palpatine himself. It is obvious who is behind this. We have to ask: why was the flaw in this Death Star never acted upon? Why was the Fleet not warned of the scale of the Ssi-ruuk assistance to the Alliance? The answer…our own Emperor wanted us to lose, so that war might begin again. To safeguard his own position. To protect him from a military coup."

Still nothing.

"We need to act," Tarkin pressed on, getting the uncomfortable impression that everyone around him was slowly edging away. "Are you with us, Darth? Think of it! With you at our side the Empire will unite under us. And with the Rebellion destroyed-"

"Your plan has failed," Vader spoke. "The Alliance's Death Star was not destroyed."

"That's impossible-"

"There is no mistake. The _Alderaan_ is out there. Damaged, but functioning."

Tarkin was about to reply when one of his aides burst into the room. "Yes, what is it?" he snapped.

His aide swallowed. "Priority One transmission, sir."

"Put it through, then!"

The aide shook his head frantically. "No, sir. It's not for you. It's for Lord Vader."

Vader rose from his seat, facing the aide, who licked his suddenly dry lips, fascinated by his own warped reflection in the blackness of that fearsome visage.

"The Emperor is calling," Vader announced.

---------------------------------------------------------

Han Solo didn't seem to have changed at all.

That surprised Luke a little; he himself had changed over the years. He'd expected Han, a fugitive from just about the entire galaxy, to have that fugitive look about him…the haunted expression, the furtive glances, the worried eyes. The demeanour of a man who had been dealt the bad hand throughout his entire life.

The Force knew that Luke felt that way himself. Ironically for a native to Tatooine, he'd been born into a family which provided little in the way of warmth. But even that semblance of family, of belonging, had been incinerated by Imperial stormtroopers.

From there on, revenge in his heart, he'd been thrust headfirst into a Rebellion he hadn't fully understood, and been forced to watch the Death Star meticulously kill everyone and everything he cared about.

All the while living with the awful knowledge that _somehow_, Luke Skywalker should have made a difference.

So it was with some degree of annoyance and envy that he noted the spring in Solo's step as the man fairly bounded down the _Falcon_'s gangplank to the docking bay proper, the characteristic half-smile intact on his scruffy features. What had given him such hope?

And just _who _was the young man, about Luke's own age, alongside him? Luke was sure he'd never met him…and yet…there was something familiar about the young stranger. Like he'd seen him before, or maybe seen his likeness before. Or maybe he just reminded Luke of someone he knew, or had known. It was hard to tell, somehow.

What wasn't difficult to detect was the Force presence the stranger possessed. It was strong. Luke had never sensed anything like it…

He stopped, barely three feet from Han. Just out of handshaking range. As he'd known he would, Han spoke first.

"Hey," he said, "who's she?"

Luke, puzzled for a moment, glanced along Han's line of sight.

"Han Solo…meet Mara Jade."

The ex-smuggler smiled roguishly. "Good to meet you."

"Likewise," Mara replied.

Solo regarded her for another moment before switching his attention back to Luke. "Been a while," he said neutrally. "Keeping busy, kid?"

"Trying."

"Who's the little guy?" Han asked. Luke glanced behind him to see Yoda hobbling down the exit ramp of the _Privateer_.

It was Chewbacca who reacted first, though. Seeing the little Jedi Master, the huge Wookiee _yowfed _gently and loped over to his side, kneeling down and engaging his tiny companion in an earnest exchange of which they could overhear little. Everyone stood and watched as Yoda leant forward and embraced Chewbacca, who returned the gesture in kind.

When Chewie straightened up, Yoda had scrambled up onto the huge Wookiee's right shoulder where he now perched, his tiny legs swinging over the immensity of Wookiee fur beneath him. Both beings seemed immensely content with this arrangement.

"Heard much of you I have, Han Solo," Yoda said, finally breaking the amazed silence that had followed he and Chewie's fond reunion.

"What are you two, pen pals?" Han asked his co-pilot. Chewie _hnuf_ed back at him.

One person could stay silent no longer. "I'm Kyp. Kyp Durron. It's amazing to see you. I…" he trailed off, seemingly bursting to add more, but unable to find the words.

"Well," Han said, "not that this cargo bay isn't great, but I think it's time to move on."

Durron pointed to a nondescript set of steel-grey doors about half a kilometre distant. "Over there."

"How do you know that?" Luke demanded.

"I've been here before," Kyp replied.

"Oh, really," Luke said, suspicion in his voice. "When?"

"Guess that _is _the question, isn't it..."

---------------------------------------------------------

The holo-emitter flickered to life.

Darth Vader was tossed backward.

He crashed into the bulkhead, taken unawares to such a degree that his impact was full-force. Anyone watching may have assumed that Vader had been hit with a stray electrical discharge from the holographic unit. Vader knew otherwise, and his suspicions were confirmed when he raised his head and beheld the holographic image before him.

The Emperor was _seething_ with rage.

His cowl, normally so good at keeping his emotions hidden, had been thrown back. Palpatine's pure white scalp was exposed, blotched and diseased with years of channelling Dark Side energies. His eyes, yellow with age and full of malice and evil, were glowing with anger. His rotting and decaying teeth were bared in aggression. Streaks of blue lightning coursed and sparked like an unholy corona around his head.

"_Get…up_," the Emperor hissed.

Malevolent eyes followed Vader's every nuance of movement until the Dark Lord had pulled himself to his feet. Now composed, the Empire's second-in-command stood facing the holo, gloved hands folded across metal chest.

He would not be so surprised again.

"Explain yourself, Master."

_This day has finally come_, he thought.

"You would ask _me _to explain _myself?_" Palpatine raged at him. "You would _dare_?"

"I am not asking."

The temperature dropped yet further. "I should have made sure of his death when I had the chance," Palpatine mused.

Darth Vader felt his world shrink to the couple of metres between him and the holo of the Emperor.

"_What_ did you say?" he said softly.

Palpatine curled his lip. "I'm talking about your precious son and heir, Darth. Or perhaps you're beginning to prefer _Anakin_?"

Vader took a step forward. "What have you done?"

"Nothing," the Emperor admitted ruefully, "but I should have, those years ago."

"You told me she was dead. You told me I killed her."

"Yes I know," Palpatine admitted it casually, as if it were nothing. "But I should have done more. I should have made sure of their deaths."

"What have I done?" Vader asked.

"You chose him. You chose _him_ over _me_."

"Your visions have returned?"

Palpatine ignored the question. "I have no further use for you. I'm ordering the Fleet to return to Coruscant, where I will have you publicly executed. And then I will scour the galaxy for him, and when I find him...I will kill him myself."

The figure of Darth Vader, slumped at the shoulders and hunched at the knees, exploded into motion. Vader leaped forward, the Force assisting his jump as he sailed across the few metres between him and the holographic representation of Palpatine.

And grabbed the Emperor by the holographic neck.

His physical actions were only a metaphor for what was transpiring in the Force; having his hands around Palpatine's throat, albeit virtually, was assisting his mind in projecting the Dark Side over the light-years separating the two men, projecting it enough to apply Vader's infamous Force-throttle to the most powerful man, the most powerful Sith, in the galaxy.

Equipment sparked in the room. Circuits began to short, fixtures and fittings to dim and brighten. The bulkheads themselves started to shake.

"If you believe that you will harm my son," Vader said, slowly and surely, as the two men struggled for dominance through the Force, "if you are the one behind the rise of the Rebellion...then know this..."

Lights failed across sixteen decks of the Death Star. One hundred crewmembers committed sudden and violent suicide, placing their blaster carbines under their chins and blowing their own heads off.

In the conference room adjoining, Grand Moff Tarkin watched in horror as the remains of Grand Admiral Tiernat's body slumped forward to the table.

Those who escaped that fate, including Tarkin and the remainder of his cabal, simply fell to their knees, gasping.

Twelve hundred people began to choke to death simultaneously.

"I am coming to Coruscant," Vader continued, as every loose piece of wiring and equipment broke free and whirled around him. "I am coming, my Emperor, my _Master_," he continued, he and the holo now the eye of a raging storm.

"I am coming for you."

The holo died. For an instant Vader's hands throttled empty air. He closed his fists. Twelve hundred people began to breathe again.

Vader strode back into the conference room. The high-ranking officials of the Imperial Fleet were just beginning to pick themselves up from the floor. What was left of Tiernat's skull smoked.

Vader didn't spare it a glance.

"Set a course for Coruscant. _Now_."


	30. Vision of the Future

**Galaxies Apart**

**Twenty-Nine**

Despite the fact that they were aboard possibly the galaxy's greatest wonder, right now the attention of everyone assembled wasn't on their surroundings.

"_What_?" Luke Skywalker said incredulously.

Kyp took another steadying breath.

"I'm from the future. You're a Jedi Master there. You were killed by your student aboard this station. The same student who went back in time and changed history."

Everyone's attention switched back to Luke.

"_What?_" he said again.

"Changed history so you never blew up the Death Star."

Luke's disbelieving stare immediately dimmed several hundred degrees. Watching him, Yoda felt himself let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. This was the information that could set Luke Skywalker back on the path to his rightful destiny.

Or, it could destroy him.

"I was meant to destroy it...?"

"Yes," Kyp nodded. "You should have succeeded. You _did _succeed. He changed that. He changed the rules. He cheated you - cheated everyone."

"And this place...?"

"We can use it to go back. To fix it."

Luke lowered his eyes from them all. He didn't speak for some moments, and when he did, it was in a hushed tone that none had heard him use before.

"If you're lying to me," he said, and despite not looking at Kyp, no-one was in any doubt as to whom he was speaking to, "if I find out that you're lying...I'll kill you."

Yoda closed his eyes. The tips of his long ears curled downward.

"Hey, just a minute-" Han stepped forward, but found Kyp's hand on his chest. A look from the younger Jedi silenced the smuggler.

Kyp walked forward and produced the holo recording from his tunic. He handed it to Luke, who activated it and gazed upon its image for a few moments. Without a word, the Jedi deactivated the holo and held it out before him. Kyp took it from him, their hands touching for a second-

-and Luke _knew _that the Jedi was lying.

Knew it as surely as he knew his own name.

"Ready to move on?" Han asked.

"Ready," Luke affirmed. As the group began to press onward and inward to the bowels of the massive space station, he kept his eyes firmly fixed on Kyp Durron. He would find a way to discover what it was the young man was hiding from them all.

And if necessary, he would make good on his promise.

---------------------------------------------------------

The Noghri, as a race, were to stealth and to hunting what only the best, most exceptional composers are to music. Born with a compactness of muscle which meant that strength could be matched by speed and athleticism, they were built for silence.

The Empire's assistance to the rebuilding process on Honoghr, the Noghri homeworld, after the disastrous impact of a Rebel Alliance vessel decades previously meant they were locked into a permanent debt. The only commodity they could offer was their stealth, and so Noghri warriors were shipped offworld _en masse _to serve the Empire as assassin squads, the most elite of commandos.

The 'assistance' provided by the Empire, of course, was completely fraudulent. Clean-up droids designed to slowly rid the poisoned Honoghr soil of its choking pollutants had been specially modified to apply a slow-acting toxin, massively slowing the process and, where necessary, worsening the pollution.

It meant that the Empire had a permanent supply of gifted soldiers whose total loyalty was assured.

Seven of their number were even now using all of the skills at their disposal. The building they were encircling held no ordinary target.

A Jedi was being hunted.

In such teams there was no need for signals, no need for gestures from one to the next. The unit was so closely attuned, so finely synchronised, it was as if they composed one larger being. Two vaulted the wall, scaled the ancient frame with ease and positioned themselves on the roof.

The Jedi had no guards. If their reputations were deserved, he might not need any.

Four bisected into two, the smaller groups fanning to the left and right of the structure, doing so in complete silence. Noghri never had to melt into the shadows. They were already there.

Every possible exit had been covered.

The Noghri leader took point. He was to have the honour of penetrating the target structure. One and a half metres of killer reached into his tool belt, extracted the necessary components. With a _hiss _the door fell in.

The Noghri leaped through, his hearing recording a _snap-hiss_ and his nose scenting human. A faint scrabbling told the leader that his team was even now making their own entrances.

In a matter of moments the Jedi would be facing seven Noghri commandos. The leader wondered briefly if the Jedi knew that his attackers were not permitted to kill him.

He saw movement. The smoke from the explosion cleared.

He died a half-second later.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Master?"

On his throne, Palpatine stirred from his contemplation. He'd been meditating like that for what seemed an eternity now, Ston knew. Ever since the Vader conversation.

Reports were coming in from the neighbouring districts; a mysterious bacterial plague had caused three thousand people to asphyxiate simultaneously. Fear had gripped the populace. Ston doubted they would have been reassured by knowing the true cause of the wave of deaths.

"What is it?"

The porcine human waddled furiously to his Master's side, trying manfully to keep from shaking. Some people think that constant exposure to danger can dull a person's sense of fear, that a person can become immune to terror.

_Try it_, Ston thought bitterly.

"Incoming transmission."

"As I anticipated," the Emperor sighed with satisfaction, "put him through. Now."

Ston obliged hurriedly. The holo activated.

"Prophet," the Emperor said.

He got no reply from the holoscreen, only blue flickering light.

"Show yourself," the Emperor commanded.

Abruptly the view on the holo display changed. Instead of the tiny representation of Prophet the format expanded, to the head-and-shoulders view the Emperor himself favoured.

Ston gasped in nausea. He brought one trembling hand up to cover his mouth, the bile rising in his throat.

A disembodied Noghri face stared at them, tongue lolling pathetically and eyes staring, dull and dead.

"What," the voice of Prophet blasted, his face still obscured by the horrific visage, "is the meaning of _this_?"

"That," the Emperor replied, "is a Noghri operative of the Empire, if I am not mistaken. A _former_ operative."

"Don't play games with me," Prophet hissed, as the Noghri head vanished to be replaced by his own.

Emperor Palpatine, formerly Darth Sidious, had quietly puppeted the galaxy for the last thirty years. Very little happened that he had not set into motion. Nothing had surprised him in some time.

"No," he breathed. "No...it can't be you."

"Believe it," Prophet replied. "Perhaps now you understand why I refused your kind offer to come to you. And that's why you sent your pet Noghri after me, isn't it? You wanted to bring me to heel."

Palpatine's mind raced for an explanation for this impossibility before him. He _knew _it couldn't be who it appeared to be. And if it wasn't-

Yes.

Yes, it had to be...

"Think about this," Palpatine said, as smoothly as he could muster. "The Noghri are not _my _pets."

"Vader...?"

Pressing his advantage, the Emperor leaned forward. "It is obvious. He has learned of your whereabouts...if not, I think, your identity...and, in his paranoia, deemed you a theat to him. He sent his disgusting little assassins. Obviously he underestimated your abilities. I would not dream of making the same error."

"What are you to do with him?"

"He is returning to Coruscant. He wishes to face me," Palpatine smiled with absolute certainty, "I will crush him. I will have him put to death. You realise, of course…that this will leave me without my apprentice, my most trusted representative. I will need a new Sith Lord. Who better than you?"

"You offer me this, even now you know?"

_I know the truth, which you would conceal from me. I wonder what Vader would make of you?_

"You have proven your loyalty. Your knowledge is unrivalled. And your warrior skills…" Palpatine coughed delicately, referring to the disembodied head, "…seem to be in place."

The head bowed. "I accept your offer...my Master."

"Then come to Coruscant. My Fleet's commanders will be here to witness the execution. The ideal opportunity to introduce them to their new Commander-in-Chief."

The Emperor smiled.

"It should be quite the occasion..."


	31. Dark Force Rising

**Galaxies Apart**

**Thirty**

Crix Madine couldn't call himself an expert on Mon Calamari body language, but a half-dead mynock could have ascertained that Admiral Ackbar was not happy.

The Imperial Fleet had vanished. Due to the damage suffered by the superlaser shockwave, damage that had dangerously destabilised the _Alderaan's _reactor cores, long-range scans had failed to detect any trace hyperspace signatures. They had lost them.

And so the Rebels were in an awkward position. Putting this Alliance & Ssi-ruuk force together hadn't been easy, and couldn't last forever. It would be quite some time before a fleet like this could be assembled again, and by then the Empire would assuredly have tightened up their defences to the extent that only the intervention of the _Alderaan _could reliably be employed to swing battles.

The problem with that was there was only one Death Star. Any idiot within the Empire would realise that employing a hit-and-fade strategy would ensure that any Alliance gains would be lost as soon as they were made.

The unmistakable noise of grumbling from behind him let Crix know that Lieutenant Jackson at the helm hadn't appreciated Ackbar's annoyance over the navigational data.

"He's tense," Madine reassured him, "we were hoping for a decisive blow at Endor, and we got a stalemate. Plus, we've lost the element of surprise."

"We need to take out their Death Star. That's their only advantage against us. One hit, even from that old bucket, and we're history."

"Easier said than done. We might be more powerful in theory, but they're running on a full crew with years of expertise. Next time we meet up it'll be another quick-draw contest. I don't see any other way of settling it."

Jackson grunted. "We came pretty close to destroying it with just a few snubfighters."

"You got your asses kicked. Close or not, the whole idea was crazy. You were lucky even to get within one shot, and you know it. The Death Star is too big a job for one tiny X-Wing, or a few Y-Wings. Especially with so much at stake."

"You're saying that Rogue Squadron couldn't pull it off?" Jackson asked, apparently incredulous.

"That's _exactly _what I'm saying."

"With a veteran of the Trench Run in their ranks?"

Madine stopped. "The Trench Run had _survivors_?"

"A few," Jackson nodded. He grinned. "Maybe Imperial propaganda said otherwise."

Crix pursed his lips. "Yeah, you've got a point."

"Wedge Antilles. Leader of Rogue Squadron, veteran of the Trench Run…and quite a few certain-death missions, from his reputation."

Madine considered it. He knew the legend of Rogue Squadron; the fact that the pilots were alreadyconsidered legends was a testament to their skill, since they'd only been thrown together a few years ago.

If anybody could try the Trench Run strategy and make it work, it was going to be Rogue Squadron. And if they had someone who'd actually _been _there, who knew what to expect there…

"Jackson, you may have something," Madine said, his mind racing.

"Remember that when my performance assessment comes up. If Ackbar has anything to do with it, I'll be cleaning out the reactor core by next week."

"I'm sure we can do better than that," Crix said supportively. "Droid maintenance section needs a new CO."

"You're a real pal, you know that?"

Ackbar had been in the private office for over an hour. He was communicating with the underground leaders of the Alliance, Crix knew. Mon Mothma had vanished some years ago and no-one, even Imperial intelligence's finest, had turned up her location.

The door to that office opened. Admiral Ackbar strode to his command chair at the centre of the bridge.

"Helm," he ordered, "set a course. Take us to Coruscant. Maximum speed."

A ripple went through the bridge even as the course was set. Madine felt a chill of excitement go through him.

The Rebel Alliance was taking a planet-killer to the most densely populated world in the galaxy...

---------------------------------------------------------

Luke had imagined that after two days aboard the wonders of Site Zero, after the revelations from Kyp and the shock of seeing a fully functional Threepio, little could surprise him. Walking into the control room proved him wrong.

Perfectly spherical, at least a mile in diameter, the control room was lined with computers, consoles, readouts and blinking lights. The room was equipped with a short-range gravity generator which meant that someone walking on its interior surface stayed planted to that surface, to the point where if they walked halfway around its circumference, relative to someone standing still they seemed to be suspended directly from the ceiling above.

At the centerpoint of the room, half a mile upward in every direction, a model of the galaxy hung in the air, glittering as if it were the jewel in the crown.

Thanks largely to Kyp, they'd made excellent progress in rebooting the computer systems that ringed the room. One by one, systems had started to flicker into life.

"This place is somethin' else, kid," Han commented, whistling softly. "And I don't impress all that easily."

Kyp paused in his work, navigating through the alien menu system as best he could. For those so advanced, the designers of this place had an irritating preference for graphical representations in their computer systems.

"We haven't started yet," he said. He glanced upward at the floating galaxy above them. "Watch this..."

And as Han - and everyone else - turned to watch, the galaxy grew and spun and the smear of stars and nebulae seemed to come to life. A small patch of space turned blue and the virtual galaxy honed in on that sector, magnifying it until the stars within ballooned to size, their planets visible.

"Corellia," Han breathed. Looking at his homeworld never failed to tug at him a little. He remembered seeing it from orbit for the first time, a lifetime ago.

"Let's go closer..."

Corellia rushed at them, _through _them, and as they plunged through the atmosphere as the planet inflated in size to fill the spherical void of the control room, they found themselves straddling continents. The desert farmboy in Luke compelled him to stoop and ran his hand through an ocean.

"Some map," Han said weakly.

"It's not a map," Kyp, Yoda, Mara and Luke replied, perfectly in unison. Han walked over the minor landmasses, the rolling hills and endless vistas of his homeworld until he stood with the others and drank in the sight of his planet's capital, Coronet City, spread out beneath him, its tallest buildings merely inches high...

...and yet _alive._

He crouched down, not quite believing what he was seeing. Miniscule transport ships passed through him. People as small as microbes milled around Coronet's busy avenues.

This was the targeting mechanism. This was how the portal had been opened into the past. This was how they were going to open their own portal, to try and repair the damage done, to get the galaxy back to the way it was.

Unknown to any of them, a tiny beacon attached to the underside of a console had just begun to transmit. Its activation signal, routed through the systems within Site Zero, were broadcast across the galaxy, seeking out and finding the one other person in the galaxy who knew Site Zero's exact location.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Are you going to tell him?"

Yoda's placid eyes regarded him. The little Jedi Master was meditating cross-legged atop a miniature Kashyyykian continent. Chewie had requested the targeting holo be re-directed and no-one had felt like disagreeing.

Kyp glanced furtively behind him. Han, Luke, Mara, Chewie and the droids were all out of earshot.

"You know what I'm talking about."

"About this, speak again, we should not," Yoda murmured.

"Listen to me," Kyp carried on, not caring if his respectful tone was slipping a little. "It took Luke a long time to recover from the news that the two Jedi Masters he held so dear had withheld the truth from him…he had to hear it from _Vader_. It almost destroyed him. I don't know why we can't-"

"Unprepared he is," Yoda replied. "Unwilling to listen. Tell him now, we could, but understand it, he would not. Trust in the will of the Force, we must."

"That's not a reason!" Kyp burst out. "How do we know what the will of the Force is anymore? Don't you feel it, Master? Since the timeline changed, that will has been thrown off. The Force isn't guiding events here. _We _are."

Yoda made no reply.

"I could understand," Kyp said quietly, "if we kept the truth about Leia from him. It might destroy him. But we _must _tell him who he is, Master. He barely survived the encounter with Vader in my timeline. Here, he may not be so lucky."

"For nine hundred years, I have instructed the Jedi. Fit to instruct me on matters of the Force, are you?"

"Judge me by my age, do you?" Kyp retorted.

Yoda smiled. "You _are_ wise," he admitted. "To trust me, I ask you. Please. On this, everything depends."

Frustrated beyond words, Kyp gave up and stalked back to the others, leaving Yoda to go back to the task of appearing serene. Truthfully, he felt anything but. The young Jedi had been correct – too correct. The Force had guided the galaxy for countless millennia, but no longer. Destiny had been cut loose. What Luke Skywalker had been born to do no longer mattered.

Yoda kept his eyes on the young man as he rejoined the larger group. Those placid eyes hid a great sadness also. He alone knew why 'Kyp' was so adamant regarding issues of hiding true identity.

It was bound to be a subject close to his heart.

---------------------------------------------------------

Skeleton crew or not, Crix Madine could have no complaints about the galley onboard the _Alderaan_.

From the evidence of the dishes in front of him, he judged that chefs and those in the food production industry must have founded the Rebel Alliance. From under a rock, it seemed, Ackbar had found culinary geniuses to prepare the meals.

"That's great," he grinned at the Tarboodian behind the counter. "In fact," he felt compelled to add, sniffing the air above his plate, "that's amazing. I don't know how you guys do it."

"We recycle the dead," the left head said cheerfully.

Crix froze. So did the twenty other Rebels in the canteen line beside him.

"Ignore this comedian," the right head said, exasperated, thumbing at its companion. "The Empire isn't interested in quality food."

"Yeah," the left head agreed, "all it wanted were _standardised meals_."

The expression both heads said those last two words made it clear that they were equated with 'racial genocide' in its mind.

It seemed that fighting on the side of truth and justice wasn't the only benefit to joining the Rebel Alliance.

The mess halls on the _Alderaan_ - all four hundred of them - had been built to deal with the kind of crew capacity the massive vessel had been designed for. For that reason the Rebel crew only needed one.

If the room had been turned ninety degrees Madine suspected clouds might have formed at the top; one thing Imperials seemingly hadn't learned was 'size doesn't matter'.

Holding his tray tightly, almost reverentially, he began to snake his way across the empty tables to where the rest of his commando unit were already eating; Madine had escaped yet another tactical meeting barely five minutes ago.

Swerving nimbly around chairs and happily munching Rebels, Crix discovered to his surprise that his mind was itching. His brain was trying to tell him something. A spy learned to trust his instincts. Crix glanced casually to his left and right even as he continued on his erratic path.

Yes. There. That was person his subconscious mind had processed in less than a second. Wasn't that-?

"Wedge? Wedge Antilles?"

The pilot in question paused with a forkful of steaming meat three-quarters of the way to his mouth. Madine met Wedge's curious gaze steadily.

Resting his cutlery on the table, Wedge ignored the stony silence from the rest of Rogue Squadron, seated around him in an arrangement which was half-respectful, half-protective of their leader. Crix's own unit did the same for him. He wondered if they even realised it.

"That's me," he agreed easily. "I don't believe we've met."

Crix placed his own food opposite Wedge and stuck his hand out. "Captain Crix Madine."

His gesture was accepted. Now he _did _have Wedge's attention. "Leader of the Imperial squad that defected at Sluis Van?"

Still standing, Madine nodded. Well, this was it. Despite the fact that the Death Star would never have been able to fall into Alliance hands without the actions of his squad, he'd encountered his fair share of suspicion bordering on hostility since. More than a few Rebels smelt a trap about their sudden rise in fortunes.

It was with some sense of relief, then, that he saw Wedge's face split into a huge smile. "Great to meet you. You did an amazing job at Sluis Van."

Madine made a throwaway gesture. "It wasn't too hard, truth be told. What stopped _me _in my tracks was you guys pulling off a victory against six AT-AT walkers using your tow cables. I realised then that all the horror stories the Empire whispered about Rogue Squadron weren't exaggerations."

A distinct murmur of approval ran the length of the table. When Wedge waved a hand at the empty spot, Madine felt accepted enough to sit down. The normal ebb and flow of conversation restarted around him; the rest of Rogue Squadron had guessed - correctly - that he was here to talk to Wedge.

Never one to waste time, Crix began. "Squadron Leader-"

"Wedge."

"-Wedge," Madine amended, sitting forward and feeling that buzz of excitement he always got at moments like this, "what do you remember about Yavin...?"

---------------------------------------------------------

_Mara?_

Mara resisted the urge to stop what she was doing. She glanced at her companions. None seemed to notice the change in the air. She almost marvelled at that; when he contacted her, she felt so much more _alive_.

_I hear you, My Lord._

_Report._

_We are still at the installation. Prior to docking we were hailed by a Corellian smuggler named Han Solo. He has joined our party._

_He is of no consequence._

_No_, she agreed, _but he has a young Jedi with him. From the future. He has the knowledge to reactivate this station's potential. They plan to return to the past, to undo the changes made and return the Empire to defeat._

She felt his surprise, his excitement at the news. _You are sure?_

_See for yourself._

And she allowed her Master to take control. Usually his touch extended to her mind only; however, with her permission, Palpatine could assume control over her senses, see through her eyes...and through the Force, he could sense her surroundings. To Mara, it felt like a power surge beyond her imagination.

Unseen by Mara, Yoda's eyes snapped open.

_I see him. You are correct. Excellent work, Mara_, and his pleasure was like a physical thing, even as he began to withdraw from her, leaving her entire body tingling-

"A long time, it has been."

Mara felt her body spun around. Yoda was there, no more than a few feet away, all traces of placidity and gentleness gone from his expression. Mara felt Palpatine's hatred throb through her. She gasped with the delicious strength of it.

"Master Yoda," she drawled, in a voice not her own, loud enough to attract the attention of everyone else. They became the centre of attention in an instant. "It seems like only yesterday you fled in defeat from me. Beaten. Humiliated."

"Leave this girl," Yoda said softly. "Require your evil, she does not. Realise this in time, she will."

This time the laughter that escaped Mara was, at least in part, her own. She could not imagine - did not _want _to imagine - life without her connection to the Emperor. He needed her. He relied on her. He had given her purpose, meaning, power...she owed him everything.

_And you will repay me_, he told her comfortingly.

And with that, he brushed her aside, thrust himself fully into her mind, filling her head.

Her lips began to scream before the soul piloting them was shunted to a dark corner of her own mind.

She screamed with the violation, with anger and terror as her body pulsed with the Dark Side. Blue lightning crackled along her body, earthing itself around her feet. Her eyes clouded with yellow.

The others watched on in horror as Mara Jade seemed to grow, expand in the Dark Side, her face paling and her teeth bared. The holo of Kashyyyk died around them. The lights dimmed. A _thrummmmm _of power began to pulse from somewhere deep within the station.

"This time," Palpatine hissed through her at the tiny Jedi Master facing them, "there will be nowhere to run."

Lightning flashed, and battle was joined.


	32. The Last Command

**Galaxies Apart**

**Thirty-One**

"Imperial Palace to unidentified craft. Identify yourself or you will be destroyed."

"You don't need to see my identification," a voice sounded over the comm channel, even as the luxurious Sullustan personal liner maneouvred itself gracefully over one of the prime docking ports at the Imperial Palace, those normally reserved for visiting dignitaries.

The lieutenant at docking control turned to his fellow duty officer, an expression of intense thoughtfulness on his face.

"You know," he said, "we don't need to see his identification."

"You're a weak-minded fool."

"I'm a weak-minded fool," the lieutenant agreed cheerfully.

"You're right!" his companion agreed. "We _don't _need to see his identification."

"You're clear to land, unidentified craft. Have a great stay at Imperial Palace."

"Thank you," the voice sounded again. "You've been most helpful. And you will be rewarded."

The lieutenant smiled as he deactivated the comm channel. He had a _good _feeling about this.

The man known as Prophet guided his ship in for a soft landing and prepared to deal with the Imperial guards no doubt already moving to intercept him. The weak-minded could be coerced like the simpletons at docking control.

And if any should possess stronger minds, well...his hand drifted to the lightsabre at his side. A sabre with a long history steeped in blood. There were ways to deal with the strong-minded also.

A frown surfaced on his face. He had expected to make contact with Palpatine's presence upon landing, and sure enough he could sense the massive Force presence of the Emperor nearby...but something was wrong. Something was different.

He pressed the controls for opening the landing hatch.

Five years of hiding had ended. It was time to take his place in this galaxy he had created.

Or perhaps, to take the place of another...

---------------------------------------------------------

Han Solo considered himself a fast draw. Years of shoot-first encounters had honed that particular skill. Upon seeing Mara Jade's transformation, therefore, his first instinct was to go for his blaster and, easy on the eyes or not, put a few well-placed bolts between her eyes before he became her next target.

It was with some sense of surprise that he realised his hands weren't responding to his commands. He was frozen to the spot. Even his eyes could barely move, but even their limited movement told him he wasn't the only person similarly affected. Threepio was wailing his protests at this latest outrage, as usual.

One of Chewie's arms was halfway to unslinging his bowcaster. The Wookiee was doing his best to howl his disapproval, but all Han's ears could discern was a faint, strangled moan from his mighty friend's throat.

Luke and Kyp were statues also. Han could see the desperation etched in their faces, as despite their much-vaunted Jedi abilities, they too were forced to stand and watch the scene before them unfold.

Two of their party seemed completely unaffected by the sudden paralysis. They were locked now in a battle the likes of which Han had never imagined.

A stream of blue lightning connected Mara Jade's outstretched hands to the tiny figure of Yoda, only a few feet away. The lightning was like a living being; as Han's unblinking eyes watched helplessly, he saw it snarl and coil like a whip, probing at Yoda, trying to find some way to sear through the little Jedi's body.

Yoda's own arms were held out before him. Somehow he was absorbing the onslaught, standing in the midst of the lethal pyrotechnics being hurled at him and managing to deflect them to the floor upon which they stood. Judging from the rumblings and grumblings the station was beginning to produce, Han didn't think that was a good thing.

Yoda was being forced back. Inch by inch he was giving ground, sliding back across the polished metallic floor of the control room. The lightning was no longer flowing through Yoda - instead, it was building between his hands into a larger and larger ball of energy, an evil-looking sphere that snapped and snarled and curled tendrils of malice at the Jedi Master who was struggling to hold it at bay.

"I should have finished you in the Senate Chamber," Palpatine's voice sounded, sounding less and less strange with each second as Mara's appearance seemed to warp further and further into matching that of her Master.

"From my mouth..." Yoda replied, sliding backwards, "...took the words..." and he raised his arms, the ball of lightning raising along with them, "...you have."

He threw his arms forward.

Mara Jade's body was blown backward, tossed like a leaf in a gale, impacted full-on by the same energies it had helped to create.

Han found he could move. His hand completed its interrupted trajectory. He felt the coolness of the blaster pistol in his hand, the blessed relief of movement.

Yoda himself staggered, barely kept his feet.

Mara landed. Not with the thump of a hurled object, but gracefully, gently. Halfway across its arc through the air her body seemed to have regained control over gravity.

"You'll have to do better than that," Palpatine hissed.

"Just watch us," Han replied.

He fired bolt after bolt, as did Chewie from his bowcaster. He prided himself on his accracy as much as he did his quick-draw, and true to form not a single bolt missed its target. Han's strangled cry died in his throat.

His target was Yoda.

With muscles he wasn't controlling, he and Chewie were relentlessly pounding the Jedi Master with blaster fire. Han would have bet the _Falcon _- not something he did lightly - that no-one, let alone a nine-hundred year old Jedi Master, could have survived.

His doubts evaporated in the face of seeing Yoda launch his tiny body into a series of acrobatic somersaults, twisting and turning out of the blaster's line of fire. Halfway through the display there was a _snap-hiss _and Yoda landed on the deck, his lightsabre suspended in mid-air before him, stationary for the briefest of moments before it began to throw itself in the path of every blaster path directed at its owner. Yoda himself was perfectly still, his eyes locked on his opponent.

Should he live through this, Han Solo resolved to learn more about this particular hokey religion.

"Enough," Palpatine snarled. Han and Chewie joined the rest back in statue mode. Luke cried out in frustration as his lightsabre worked itself loose from his belt and flew to Mara Jade's hand. It settled into her grip already ignited. Mara's body levitated into the air, swept with incredible grace toward Yoda until she settled down to Earth just out of striking distance.

"Your time has come," her mouth puppeted.

"Long since," Yoda replied. "But on borrowed time living, the only one, I am not."

The lightsabres came together as the lights in the control room died completely. In a room one mile across, two solitary blades of light provided the only source of illumination.

The others could only watch as they began a dance to the death.

---------------------------------------------------------

_Mara?_

It was dark. Cold. She shivered in this place. She felt so alone, so small. Like a little girl lost, a million light-years from the Emperor's Hand she would one day become. But there was none of that strength here, none of the resolve and the certainty of conviction and of power that flowed through her, originating from the strength of his will and channeled through her-

_He used you._

The three words caused her to shrink further, if that were possible. She fought against them all the more because of the bitter truth they contained. Hurt and anger burned within her, as it had for years, but directed now at the one person she had elevated so high that she could barely live with the guilt at the feelings she was experiencing. And so she had refused to deal with them, had retreated instead inside her own mind.

Dimly, as though she were at the bottom of a lake and perceiving things happening in the skies above, she knew that her body was being controlled, puppeted to channel immense energies from unimaginable distances. She was being hollowed out body and soul to make way for Palpatine's enormous Force presence, the full extent of his terrible arsenal now being brought to bear on-

_On me, Mara. _

Why had he come here? How? He was fighting for his life and barely holding his ground, and yet she could feel him in this place, making himself available for her, standing there patiently waiting for her to respond to his gentle pleas. Shame, humiliation, more anger coursed through her. Even in her greatest defeat she could find no hiding place. Her talents with the Force had cursed her to this life.

_The Force is not a curse, Mara Jade. It is a gift. _

_Try being an Emperor's Hand_, she retorted, at last seeing fit to reach out and grasp that tendril of assistance being proffered. She felt his gratitude and wondered again at how in the galaxy he was splitting his attention like this.

_It is not easy, _he admitted, perhaps a touch of gallows humour in his presence now. _I fear that I will not be able to manage for much longer. Which is why I must ask you to listen to me. Please._

_You don't talk like you talk in here_, she noted, almost lazily, feeling what remained of herself seeming to spiral painlessly away with each passing moment. _What happened to the backward sentences?_

_This is not crude verbal communication, Mara. This is the Force. Mara, I need your help. I cannot defeat him. But you-_

_Me? _and she laughed, if that were possible here in the emptiness. It was, and it echoed. Oh how it echoed. _Me? Against him?_

_Not just you_, he promised her, and she felt all nine hundred years of his resolve behind those simple words.

_He has made me all I am._

_He has poisoned you. He continues still. The power you believe that he grants you is your own power - he merely feeds from it, as he is feeding now. If he succeeds, you will be a lifeless husk when this is done. You must find the courage to reject him, Mara Jade. _

_To save you?_

_No_, and she sensed again the truth behind his reply, sensed more than that, and she was shocked and humbled for the first time in her life. _To save another. He will need you, though he does not know it._

The water was getting deeper. The outside world, already hazy and distant, now felt like something from a half-remembered fantasy, a dream of waking. She felt as immaterial as a phantom...and to her astonishment, the darkness around her rescinded for the first time as a light source entered her twilight world.

The light was from her. She was glowing.

_What...is this?_

_This is how we are in the Force. This is what you can be, Mara. But not yet_, and now his voice was almost inaudible, the faintest of whispers in a world of shadows. _Not yet..._

And he was gone, leaving her alone in the void.

---------------------------------------------------------

Palpatine could scarcely believe it. Yoda was crumbling before his eyes. His lightsabre parries were becoming laboured with every exchange, his anticipatory thrusts less and less effective.

They had been battling for only a few minutes, and yet with the Force assisting their movements, each of the two combatants had covered half of the room's circumference. They battled a mile above the heads of the immobile watchers.

Knocking aside his diminuitive opponent's latest feeble attack, Palpatine responded with a deadly flurry of his own, knocking Yoda back, forcing him into last-minute parries which gradually robbed him of his footing until he stumbled backwards with a cry. Palpatine advanced on him mercilessly.

"The past dies with you. Now."

He raised the saber for the killing stroke...and found that he couldn't bring the arm down.

_Remember me, my Lord? _

"Mara!" Palpatine spat through her mouth, "Mara...I will destroy you if you..._aaagh!"_

He staggered backward. Half a galaxy away in his Throne Room, his physical body shook with exertion and rage. He poured himself back into the body of his Emperor's Hand, as he had done shortly before with no resistance.

This time, things were different.

"Get..._OUT_," Mara choked, this time the soul behind the words belonging to its rightful owner.

Weakened, wheezing, Yoda managed to stand. He deactivated the blade on his lightsaber.

"No..." Mara said desperately, sweat beading from every pore on her body, her veins standing out on her neck, blood beginning to cloud her vision, "...do it. Kill me...I can't keep him out. I'm trying, but I can't-"

Yoda merely looked at her. "Do," he said softly, "or do not. There is no _try_."

A scream began in her throat, a low cry of pain and anguish that was at once the strain of removing Palpatine's iron grip on her body, her mind, her very soul, but also the pain of knowing that what she was doing meant her old way of life, the life she had loved, would soon be gone forever.

_I will be free_.

_No_, and it was his voice, dripping with hatred, _you will never be free. You will remain my servant._

She summoned up everything she had, and blasted him with it. Had she been closer to him, and had he not already exerted himself with the extent of his remote puppetry of her compliant body, she would never have stood a chance. Here, now, with her own resolve and the assistance of a Jedi Master, she felt his imprint, his _stain _begin to be removed from deep within.

But he was not to be denied.

In the instant before she loosened his grip on her, he retook control of her arms and sent an immense bolt of lightning searing through her body. She could only watch as the bolt flew from her hands.

Yoda never knew what hit him.

He was blown backward, his body scarred and smoking as it impacted the ground with a terrible, final boneless _thud_.

The lightning had been so powerful that it contined still, through where Yoda had been standing, grounding itself in a computer bank at the far side of the control room. Dark Side energies flooded the systems around the huge circular expanse.

YOU WILL KILL DARTH VADER.

The words, imparted with Palpatine's final thoughts as a resident within her mind, reverberated agonisingly through Mara Jade's entire being as the artificial gravity field failed. The floor beneath her feet abruptly became ceiling.

She fell, her scream fading as consciousness fled and the void reclaimed her whole.


	33. Unmasking

Galaxies Apart

Thirty-Two

A mile is a long way to fall.

The immobile bodies of Mara Jade and Yoda had thirty seconds of freefall before impact. Kyp Durron knew this. And so whilst everyone else simply stared in horror at the two falling forms, he knew also what had to be done.

_Luke_.

Luke turned to him, astonished, and made as if to speak.

_No time for words. Listen to me. We can save them, but we need to do it together. You have to trust me._

_Who ARE you? _Luke sent back, unable to stop himself from asking, from _needing _to know the truth.

And Kyp opened his mind to Luke, and the Force, and told him. Luke staggered backward a step, not prepared for what flooded to him.

Pain. Loss.

And-

_He cannot know_, Kyp's voice sounded again in Luke's head, even as Luke felt himself reeling in shock. _Now do the same for me. We can save them! Do it NOW!_

The air seemed to crackle with energy between them. Their heads jerked upward as one, in perfect synchronicity, as both men raised their hands slowly from their sides, seeming to _push _the very air around them upwards...

...and the bodies of Mara Jade and Yoda began to slow in their descent.

Han Solo's blaster dropped numbly from his hand. He barely noticed. He took in the sight of the falling pair slowing gracefully, gently, until they hovered almost reverentially only four feet or so from the floor of the Targeting Room.

Chewie growled softly for his attention and Han saw the Luke-Kyp partnership for himself. He felt a chill race down his spine. They were moving and acting as one. He wondered what destruction that particular little talent could cause if it was used for that purpose...

The spell broke as Mara Jade and Yoda completed their decelerated descent to the floor. Luke and Kyp were first to them - _both _of them, to Han's surprise. He stooped to scoop up his blaster.

"Are you crazy?!" he demanded. "Get clear of her!"

"She's not going to hurt us," Kyp stated, in a tone that somehow conveyed that no argument would be forthcoming on the issue.

Mara Jade was alive. Deathly pale, she was shivering wildly, sweat beading from her forehead, the veins standing out on her neck, and blue lightning coursing and earthing itself throughout her body. But alive.

Yoda...

"Master?" Luke called gently.

Yoda's eyes opened. Both Luke and Kyp let loose with cries of delight and surprise, but Han Solo - who had seen death more times than he cared to remember - knew the look of a dying being when he saw one.

Chewie moaned softly. Han rested a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Luke..." Yoda said, coughing a little, speaking with extreme difficulty.

"Don't move, Master. You need to heal."

"Too late, it is," Yoda said softly. He looked so small. So frail. Soft landing or not, his body had been broken before it had ever begun to fall.

Luke shook his head. "No," he said firmly, fiercely, his voice brittle. "No."

"Luke...let me speak to Kyp. A message for him, I have."

Luke stood with Han and Chewie as Yoda and Kyp exchanged words, out of earshot. When it was done, Kyp walked to them with tears in his eyes. He looked to Luke.

"Go to him," he said.

Luke knelt beside the body of the Jedi Master. For a moment he thought Yoda had slipped away - but no, those soulful, sad eyes opened once again and brought themselves to bear upon him.

"In your hands..." Yoda said, slowly, painfully, "the fate of all lies."

"I can't-"

"You are strong!" the Jedi Master returned with surprising force, before another coughing fit wracked his body. His hand lifted to gesture to the unconscious, twitching form of Mara Jade. "Help her...you must."

"_Help _her?" Luke repeated, hardly believing what he was hearing. "She did this to you!"

"Reclaim her from the Dark Side...you must. In her redemption, your own power you will find. On this...all depends."

Luke nodded, despair filling him. He watched as Yoda's life force seemed to slip away from him. For an instant Luke imagined he could see _through _that tiny green body-

"Know this, you must," Yoda continued, his breathing coming in shorter and shorter gasps now. "There is...ano...ther...Sky...walk...er..."

He slumped back, twitched, and lay still and restful. A moment later, as Luke's numb mind struggled to cope with what was happening, Yoda faded from existence, his entire body vanishing into the void. In a heartbeat, the galaxy's last and greatest Jedi Master had ceased to be.

---------------------------------------------------------

The Imperial Palace guards prided themselves on being the finest stormtroopers the galaxy had to offer. Only the best and brightest were selected from the Academy on Carrida, hand-picked by the Emperor for their adaptability, loyalty and devotion.

They had sworn the oath to fight to the death to protect their charge.

Today was the day they would fulfil that oath.

Prophet's lightsaber cut through a stormtrooper's armour plating from stem to sternum as if it were butter. The surprised trooper was dead before he fell in two neatly cauterized pieces to the Palace floor.

Blaster fire rained down on the intruder. Fifteen stormtroopers lay dead in the corridors already. Twenty remained. They flanked the intruder, executing a killing formation exactly as they had been trained, trapping him in a pincer movement in order to rain down an unstoppable wave of blaster fire.

Prophet threw his lightsaber at his attackers and leapt five metres vertically into the air. By the time his body returned to earth, the lightsaber falling neatly into his outstretched hand, fourteen troopers remained.

Auto-blaster systems overhead tracked his every move. E-web repeating blasters with rates of fire beyond that of any living being.

But Prophet's lightsaber was like a thing possessed. It whirled and twisted through the air, reflecting and diverting the bolts back with unerring accuracy so that they struck blaster ports, stormtroopers, security consoles.

Through it all, Prophet walked on serenely toward his goal, stopping only to pick up an errant stormtrooper with no apparent effort and snap his neck with a single wrench.

The Throne Room doors were flung open from the outside. The last surviving elite squad stormtrooper, having much too late decided to abandon his training and flee for his life, managed to get three steps inside his Master's inner sanctum before that terrible lightsaber caught up with him.

The man had time to register the blade jutting from his chest before he slid nervelessly and lifelessly down, slicing himself in half in the process.

Prophet walked into the Imperial Throne Room, the seat of the Empire's power, home to the Emperor, under the watchful gaze of its occupant.

His lightsaber returned to his hand with a thought and deactivated. He knelt.

"Master," he said.

There was silence for a long moment. Prophet could sense the recent stress the Emperor had been under. The air inside the Throne Room crackled with the Dark Side. Palpatine had been in pain.

The man who called himself Prophet felt his lightsaber detach itself from him and float through the air to the Emperor, turning over and over in the air as Palpatine scrutinised it.

"You wield your father's lightsaber," the Emperor said. "But would you wield your father's power? Will you destroy him, and become the new Dark Lord of the Sith?"

The man before him stood, his Jedi robe and cowl falling away to reveal a face familiar and yet alien, a face that Palpatine knew would be his most potent weapon in the battles to come.

"I am yours to command...my Master," Luuke Skywalker promised.

The Emperor's delighted laughter echoed long and loud.

---------------------------------------------------------

"How is she?"

Kyp's eyes were red. The kid looked as if he hadn't slept properly in weeks. "Still out," he said, indicating Mara's body. They had wrapped her in an insulating blanket intended to shield electronics, partly to keep her warm, but mostly because her body was still earthing small blasts of blue lightning.

It had been nine hours since Yoda's death. The systems of the immense room around them had seemed to stabilise; the gravity had returned to normal. Sooner or later, everyone knew, they were going to have to make a decision about whether to try to open a portal to the past.

"Get some shut-eye, kid," Han said. "A blaster's no good with a burnt out power cell. Go. That's an order."

Kyp nodded. Han patted his shoulder almost without realising he was doing it, but the kid seemed to appreciate the gesture.

As he walked away toward his cushioned sleeping roll, a few feet from the already-sleeping body of Luke Skywalker, Kyp cast a glance back at Han. It was so strange to see him like this. So strange to have to lie.

So tempting to call him _father_ and not _Han_.

Jacen Solo was asleep in moments.

---------------------------------------------------------

The TIE fighters filled the heavens behind him. Luke Skywalker, farmboy, saviour, closed his eyes and silently implored his long-dead father to help him. A signal from Artoo told him that his X-Wing was not the target. Wedge was.

"_I'm hit!_" came his new friend's voice, shame and disbelief evident that he should suffer this fate, "_it's not bad._"

Luke glanced at Artoo's scans and told his friend to do what he must have been dreading. "Get clear, Wedge. You can't do any more good back there."

Wedge didn't waste time with arguments. "_Sorry,_" came his voice as his X-Wing pulled out of the trench and to relative safety. Wedge had done his job. He had absorbed the fire meant for Luke, and he had survived. Luke supposed that was a small victory.

It also meant the pursuing TIEs now had just one more X-Wing to disable before they reached a defenceless Luke.

The X-Wing was a wonderful little fighter, but it lacked rear offensive capabilities of any kind – and in this Trench, there was no turning around, no turning back. No time to do either.

Luke's only hope was that Biggs Darklighter, his old friend from Tatooine, was a good enough pilot to keep the TIEs off his back for long enough. This was the point of no return.

His scans showed fire. Biggs' X-Wing frantically used every inch of the limited space available to it to manoeuvre around and out of the fire. Luke watched in delight as Biggs successfully evaded salvo after salvo, sweeping from left to-

_No!_

Too late. Biggs had fallen for it. Pushed by constant fire from one side his X-Wing had backed itself into a corner. Concentrated fire from the central TIE pounded it for a few brief seconds before Rebel craft, Biggs Darklighter included, blossomed into oblivion against the artificial canyon of this monstrous space station.

He restricted himself to a bit lip, a clenched fist. The stinging in his eyes had nothing to do with sweat. Biggs had done his job, too. Right to the end.

He threw his craft into a series of steep and shallow dives and jinks, throwing his X-Wing across the targeting screen of the TIE for all it was worth.

He would _not _be caught.

He would _not…_

_Use the Force, Luke. _

The illusion shattered.

Luke jerked his hands from the controls, gasping as if he'd just been plunged headfirst into freezing water.

This wasn't real. He was dreaming.

Around him the trench walls loomed as claustrophobically as ever. Behind him he could almost hear the high-pitched, terrible whine of the chasing TIE fighters, waiting for a chance to cut him down.

Ahead of him, he knew, lay the exhaust port. That two-metre maw which had ruined his life.

The memory of Yoda's calm acceptance in the face of death came unbidden to his mind. The Jedi Master had sacrificed everything for him, had demonstrated the kind of pureness of spirit that Luke had once aspired to possess.

Luke forced away his fear. He was tired of it, tired of running, tired of this damned Trench and all it had come to represent in his mind.

It felt like he had exhaled a breath he'd been holding for the last five years. An amazing, quite wonderful sense of calmness and of purpose washed through him.

And Ben's voice whispered, _Let go, Luke_.

He wasn't speaking the same riddles again and again. Luke knew that now. Ben wasn't talking to his younger self at all. He was speaking to the Luke of today, telling him to release all of his angst. He had known.

Somehow…_Ben had known_.

The TIE fighters were preparing to fire. He knew that. He knew every component moment of this nightmare. But never before had he been able to take control.

This Trench Run might only be a dream, a Force-born fever of the past. But it was a moment of his life he was going to have to conquer mentally; _that_ was the true message behind Ben's words.

He had to destroy the Death Star in his mind, here and now.

Setting his jaw, Luke reached a practised hand to his cockpit controls, and touched a switch that he'd flicked on an eternity of occasions. At his side the computer obligingly retracted the tactical display.

"_Luke_," came the voice, as he'd known it would. "_You've-_"

"Nothing," Luke broke in. "I'm all right."

Base One fell silent. They'd trusted his judgement, allowed the biggest rookie pilot, the biggest risk, to breach the most stringent of the Alliance's instructions that day. They'd had faith in him.

For the first time in a long time, he had faith in himself.

Once, he'd shouted instructions at Artoo. Told him to lock this or that down, pleaded for more power. Not now. He was going to do this all by himself, or he wasn't going to do it at all. To do, or do not.

Back in the central TIE, Vader was sufficiently stirred to mutter, "The Force is strong with this one."

Shrugging off the oddity, Vader turned his attention back to the targeting display. The representation of the X-Wing flitted crazily about the screen, as his TIE attempted to gain a weapons lock. The crosshairs refused to glow with confirmation for what seemed like an age.

Vader sat poised to strike, ready, his hands tightly wrapped around the steering column, his thumbs resting on the button which would send turbolaser fire searing from his batteries and transform a snubfighter into a fused mass of junk.

_There_. His thumbs squeezed. Deadly laser blasts sprang from his ship.

The X-Wing dodged every blast. Vader could scarcely believe it.

Luke righted the X-Wing, almost breaking his arm fighting the control stick. Before, he hadn't concentrated. Before, he hadn't understood what Ben meant. _Trust your feelings_. _Let go. Use the Force._

Arrogantly, naïvely, Luke had pressed on in confidence. Thinking that a simple gesture like switching off an automatic targeting system was what Ben had intended him to do.

Now, he knew better. Now, he was flying an X-Wing down a Trench barely wide enough to take it, avoiding Imperial fire and maintaining a fierce determination to _see _that exhaust port…

All with his eyes closed.

_Your eyes can deceive you. Don't trust them. _Ben had told him that too. Luke hadn't really understood it back then, a boy fresh from the scorching purgatory of Tatooine, his aunt and uncle's smoking corpses haunting him at every turn.

The central TIE fired again. Luke had already began his dip-and-roll evasive. The high-speed move saw him plummet to the floor of the Trench before throttling back to firing altitude whilst jinking right to avoid a potentially lethal tower lunging at him from the left-hand wall. His eyes remained closed, his breathing regular and relaxed.

Artoo was screaming in terror.

Back in the chasing pack, Vader was having trouble believing what he was seeing. He had felt certain that the X-Wing was doomed. Despite the soundless expanse separating him from his quarry, he had almost heard the demise of the X-Wing's astromech unit-

The illusion shattered.

Vader gazed down at his hands as if they were disconnected from his body. His mind, his thoughts, felt so clear that it almost _hurt_ to think.

This wasn't real. He was dreaming.

For some time now his mind had insisted he revisit this moment in time. The dream always ended as reality itself had done; with the destruction of Yavin IV and the victory of the Empire.

But never, _never_, had Vader managed to destroy the X-Wing which flew before him now.

And now he knew why. Why a Dark Lord of the Sith and a trained Jedi had failed so many times.

"Luke…" he whispered, reflexively reaching out with the Force.

Inside the X-Wing, Luke's eyes snapped open. The ship lurched drunkenly to one side in sympathy. He ignored Artoo's whimpers from the back, ignored the proximity warnings telling him that a Corellian YT-1300 freighter was approaching fast. His mind went over the last few seconds.

Someone had called his name. Someone…

And the TIE fighter to the left of Vader decided to open fire.

Luke, his concentration broken, didn't stand a chance of evading this volley. The laserfire pounded his X-Wing. Artoo vanished into oblivion with a final squeal. His starboard engine disintegrated.

Around him, the X-Wing began to fail.

"_No!_" Vader raged. Almost without conscious thought he killed his throttle speed a fraction, dropping behind his wingmates. The TIE that had fired upon Luke's ship was vaporised an instant later with a sustained burst of fire.

Too late. Luke's ship was doomed. It was losing altitude fast, venting a huge amount of plasma from the starboard engine.

His _son_…

His remaining wingmate burst into flame. The _Millennium Falcon _swooped in from overhead, its Corellian pilot whooping with joy, quite unaware as he turned his main gun to target the final TIE that he had been reduced to bit-part player in this dreamscape.

Luke knew it was hopeless even as he struggled to bring the snubfighter to bear. The damage to the systems was simply too extensive for the ship to survive. He was locked into a slow arcing descent, with his only obvious means of stopping being colliding with a trench wall at high velocity. The firing mechanisms for the proton torpedoes had been completely incinerated.

He'd failed. This time he wouldn't even survive long enough to watch the Death Star reach out and destroy his life.

A proximity alarm blared. It hardly mattered. To any Imperial ships remaining he would be a helpless target. They could shoot him down for fun. Right now he would have welcomed the oblivion.

_Thunk._

His X-Wing bounced and shifted. He wasn't being fired upon. Luke checked his instruments incredulously.

_He was gaining altitude_.

"_Kid_," Han's tones came over the transmitter, "_you're not going to believe this. I think one of the TIE fighters is _under _you. I can't target it…but…_" Luke could clearly hear the disbelief in Han's voice, "_It almost looks as if it's…supporting you?_"

There was that presence again. That strange mind he'd brushed with, the one that had so startled him. It was still alive, and it was coming, unmistakably, from somewhere below him. When he extended a mental hand it recoiled, and he tasted anger, fear, shame...

And, most puzzlingly of all, a sense of pride.

Despite this, he was running out of Trench and he had no way to fire his proton torpedos. The Death Star would still win. But...there was that lurking tranquillity again, slowing time around him, trying to tell him the way.

Once again, Luke blocked out the outside world, put himself back in communication with the Force. If the X-Wing wouldn't release the torpedoes…well, he'd just have to do the job all by himself.

_You're all clear, kid, _he heard. Whether the voice was real or imaginary, whether it was his own or not, he didn't know. _Now let's blow this thing…and go home. _

The TIE supporting him buckled and swayed as, above it, the X-Wing suddenly grew lighter to the tune of two proton torpedoes.

As Vader watched the twin balls of fire streak away, sensing that they had been fired not with a plasma discharge from the launchers, but with the Force, a surge of pride swelled up within him.

Deep in the bowels of the station itself, Grand Moff Tarkin pulled subconsciously on his lips, a bad habit of old brought on by a truly horrible feeling, a terrible premonition building within him.

Eyes tightly shut, Luke saw nothing, but watched everything. He felt the torpedoes enter the exhaust shaft, both of them, clean as a whistle. But then, he'd _never _missed the shot.

It was now that something had happened to those torpedoes, some phenomenon which prevented them from arriving in the reactor core and setting off the chain reaction to destroy the Death Star. In the future, Kyp had told him that it was a proton inhibitor, a device which nulled the explosive force contained in the warhead.

Well…he could deal with that.

The torpedoes, moving at a speed nearing that of light, descended the exhaust shaft and entered the reactor core. As they did so, Luke used the Force to reach inside the warheads, to gather up all the little excited protons in their clusters and superclusters, to press them all tightly together-

-and to _break _them.

The Death Star's structure shuddered.

As he'd known it would, his X-Wing rose sharply into the safety of surrounding space, carried and supported by the TIE fighter and its mystery pilot. Luke could do nothing but watch the space station hang there.

And nothing happened.

And nothing-

He shielded his eyes from the explosion. A part of him wanted to stare into that unbearable brightness, glory in the destruction, gloat at the victory. The rest of him wanted to remember that thousands of people had just died because of his actions.

Luke knew now, at last, which voice he had to listen to.

Over the frantic, delirious transmissions of Base One, he heard and felt another few bumps. It seemed that his faceless benefactor had decided now was the time to leave. Indeed, there was the TIE itself, looking not a little battered in the hasty departure from the blast radius.

He had the strangest feeling. Almost as if the person in that Imperial ship was really there, not some mental caricature in a Force-inspired dream. As if _he _was the intruder in _their _dream…

_Who are you?_

In his cockpit, Darth Vader thought about replying. Telling Luke who he was, what he was, why things had turned out the way they had.

But, when things were said and done, this was nothing more than a dream. That wasn't Luke over there in that X-Wing, just like his selfless act back there had never, could never have occurred in reality.

"_Red Five_?" Luke's comm unit flared into life.

"I'm here, Base One."

"_Great shot, Luke! That was one in a million!_"

Luke felt his heart leap.

"Leia...?"


	34. Attack of the Clone

**Galaxies Apart **

**Thirty Three**

"Dropping out of hyperspace in twenty seconds, sir."

Tarkin's grip tightened on his command chair. "Inform the Fleet to spread out around the planet."

The helmsman confirmed the order and hurried to obey. Wisely, he had caught the mood of intensity. Today would not be a good day to annoy Grand Moff Tarkin.

"Sir, we have an incoming transmission from Coruscant."

Tarkin felt a ripple of silence, an inversion of noise, course through the bridge of the Death Star. Though none had shifted their position physically, he was acutely aware that the attention, the trepidation of each and every bridge officer was now focussed on him.

Rumours had been spreading...

"It's Coruscant orbital control, sir," the navigational officer went on. "Merely confirming our approach vector."

A collective breath escaped the lips of all assembled, including Tarkin's, though he'd rather have been fed feet-first to rabid mynocks than have admitted it.

"Moff Lursa's fleet has adopted their designated approach vector, sir," helm informed him. "The remainder of the Fleet is falling in behind us as you ordered."

Led by the Death Star, the Imperial fleet was indeed fanning out in the Coruscant system. To the observer it would have looked innocuous enough; a large collection of huge ships merely giving each other room.

In actuality, each of the Fleet's capital ships was sidling up against a strategic defensive position. Come the time, come the signal, they would be poised to strike with lightning speed against their own troops.

Tarkin glanced upward at his command chair's newest addition and smiled. _And the sweetest part, my 'Lord'_, he thought with some relish, _is that you will never see it coming._

---------------------------------------------------------

"You're curious about me," Luuke stated. He was exploring the extent of the Throne Room with apparent interest whilst Palpatine remained placidly seated on the throne itself.

"Is that a question?" the Emperor replied.

Luuke was about to speak when a transmission interrupted him. "Master...the Imperial Fleet has entered the system."

"Excellent," Palpatine replied, a strange look of satisfaction on his face. "You have your orders, Captain. I expect them to be carried out as befits a man in your position."

There was an almost audible _gulp _of air from the other end of the audio transmission. "Yes, Master," the man replied.

"They're not curious about the squad of dead troops outside?" Luuke asked, vaulting easily in a series of casual yet spectacular bounds across the expanse of the Throne Room until he was no more than ten feet from Palpatine once again.

"Hardly," Palpatine replied. "I had told Palace staff to expect it, after all. I imagine the bodies have already been disposed of."

Luuke cocked his head to one side. "You _knew _I was going to kill them all?"

"I would have been disappointed in you otherwise," Palpatine replied, seemingly surprised at the question. "There are always more stormtroopers, my young apprentice. But I believe we were discussing _you_, not me."

"Yes. I-"

"You are a clone. Created, I would guess from the level of complexity, using the Spaarti cloning facility I located on Wayland. From our earlier conversation regarding the original timeline of events, I would assume that some years after my death, my facility on Wayland was called into service and that you were created as part of some scheme to eliminate your..." the Emperor smiled, "...other half."

Those yellow eyes and pallid skin bored holes into Luuke's skull, seeming to suck the oxygen from the room.

"Close?"

"The stories of you are true," was all Luuke could muster in reply.

"I try not to disappoint," Palpatine said softly. Danger and warning lurked behind every word this man uttered. "But please, feel free to fill in the gaps..."

---------------------------------------------------------

They should have killed him.

He saw it behind the eyes of everyone who talked to him, at him, about him like he wasn't there, those who mouthed platitudes and shivered as he walked away and said _isn't it strange? the poor thing! and they're so alike! poor, confused thing!_

He had been created as the last throw of the dice by a madman - a cloned madman, naturally. Grown in a tank, shielded from the Force, hidden, and unleashed upon his target with no free will of his own, his infantile mind completely taken over by the crazed intellect of Joruus C'boath, hellbent on the destruction of Luke Skywalker and determined to the point of insanity to gain an apprentice to tutor in his own dark image - whether that apprentice be a clone himself.

He had fought Luke, the original Luke, and...his memories of those early days were so fragmented, so myriad...he had lost the fight, not to Luke, but to Mara Jade. She had the chance to strike him down, and instead she'd merely incapacitated him, cut off his lightsaber hand. He had blacked out - not from the pain, he knew, but because with the loss of his fighting hand Joruus had promptly realised he was useless and had simply withdrawn from his mind. Empty, vacant, that shell of a mind had simply closed down without its pilot.

_Poor thing._

The taste, smell, feel of bacta was all he could remember for the next eternity, as if finally he was being born a proper person. But he was no child. He was a perfect copy of a legend, and when his wounds and his mental scars had finally healed and Luuke Skywalker emerged from that bacta tank, it was that mirror image who met him, Leia Organa Solo and her husband with him.

He had been watched. He had been considered a high security risk. Though C'boath was long dead, memories of the capabilities of Dark Jedi Masters were fresh in the head of every Alliance general still. His movements had been restricted to the Coruscant facility he had been reborn within. Even as they worked to educate him, to teach him how to read and write, they had watched him day and night for signs. There were some, he knew, who would have happily made him vanish, lest he be harbouring any last vestiges of Joruus C'boath's twisted mind.

But Luke...Luke had fought for him.

Luke had approached the New Republic Senate. Luke had argued fiercely with the politicians for his rights. Luke had reminded those cautious souls within the military that what they had found on Wayland had been a blank slate, a slave dominated by the will of a monster few had been able to resist. A slave they had freed, and who now deserved the chance to exist within that freedom.

_Poor thing._

And so, at the kind request of the Senate (and as a suggestion from Luke), Luuke had taken the name Ben and had emerged into the galaxy as Ben Skywalker. At first he could only stand back and watch as his 'brother' and his friends helped to save the galaxy time and again. As time went by, however, Ben Skywalker grew to master his own Force powers.

Two years after Wayland, a clone of Palpatine claimed the Imperial throne. Luke fell to the Dark Side in a misguided attempt to understand the Force better. In that moment, it had been Ben Skywalker who had stepped forward. It had been Ben who had led the New Republic counter-attack to victory, who had fought Luke and made him reclaim himself from the Dark Side.

And in the customary victory celebrations that ensued, the galaxy paused to embrace and celebrate the tale of Ben Skywalker, created for evil but destined to be a force for good.

They had all been so busy looking for C'boath's influence over him that no-one had ever thought to imagine, dared to even theorise, that he would look at the galaxy and examine the ways of the Force and simply decide that he would dedicate himself heart and soul to the Dark Side.

All things being equal, it just seemed more _fun_.

In the years that followed, he had constructued a political career...gained the trust and adulation of hundreds of billions of sentient beings across thousands of worlds...it had all been so easy.

But he was still Ben Skywalker. Cosmic mistake.

The chance to go back to the past...to travel to a past untouched by the weakness of the Alliance and before anyone would know of his origins...it was something he couldn't resist.

Something he would have killed for.

"Why are you doing this, Ben?"

Feverishly working the consoles, the targeting software of the Control Room whirring and spinning into spectacular life around him, he didn't even bother to turn around. "Just preparing for a little trip, big brother."

_Snap-hiss._

Now Ben did turn. He looked down at the lightsaber Luke was holding and raised an eyebrow, bemused. "Are you intending to use that?" he asked mildly.

"If I have to."

"Oh come on, Luke," he grinned, looking into that face and feeling the usual mixture of revulsion and not bothering to repress it for the first time in years.

Luke gasped as if struck. "_That's_ how you feel about me?" he said, his voice hollow with shock and sadness. "I disgust you? You've hidden that from me all these years?"

Ben's mouth curled. He stepped forward, as the immense holographic projections swept through them. His lightsaber came bidden to his hand almost unconsciously. He looked at Luke Skywalker with undisguised hatred.

"I defended you," Luke said, faintly, almost as if he were talking to himself. "I fought for you. I spoke up-"

"Shut up," Ben snarled. "Just _shut up _with that sanctimonious prattle for once, would you? Do you want the truth, _big brother_? You didn't care about me. You never have. You looked at me and you saw our father. You looked at me and you remembered how you failed to save him and you just couldn't live with the thought of losing someone else. All that you did, it was never for me. It was for him. For you. So the mighty Luke Skywalker, the galaxy's greatest hero, could have another cosy little story."

Luke flinched back. "No," he said eventually. "No, you're wrong. I wanted you to have a chance at a normal life-"

"The galaxy doesn't need two of us," Ben shot back. "I wasn't interested in failing to live up to you. I was created to be your shadow self. I guess I'm finally succeeding at something."

"But you...Ben, you were the one who brought _me_ back from the Dark Side..." Luke went on, hoarsely. He was moving backward, perhaps without even realising it, his lightsaber gradually dropping from a position of readiness.

"You never went over," Ben said dismissively. "You flirted with darkness and it scared you. Believe me, brother...those who truly embrace the Dark Side discover the true meaning of _power-_"

With that, he'd thrown his lightsaber. The blade ignited the moment it left his grip, spinning through the air on a lethal arc for Luke's torso. Luke was equal to the task. He parried the blow easily-

But then, that had been the point, hadn't it?

"Made you look," Ben snarled, as his fingers erupted with blue fire.

Dark Side energies leapt from him and tossed Luke Skywalker aside like a rag doll. With a thought Ben plucked his opponent's lightsaber from his grip and, controlling both from afar, suspended Luke in mid-air, bringing the blades of both sabers to bear in a criss-crossing X formation around Luke's neck.

The Control Room settled on its target. Around them, the Death Star's walls and canyons were passing through them as the immense machinery in which they stood settled on its final destination.

"You're going to change it?" Luke Skywalker managed to gasp.

"No, you poor thing..."

The lightsabers moved.

Ben Skywalker smiled as he released his grip and allowed both halves of Luke Skywalker to fall lifeless to the floor.

"...I'm going to _fix_ it."


	35. The Battle of Coruscant

Galaxies Apart

Thirty Four

Coruscant from orbit never failed to stir pride in him. It truly was the jewel in the Imperial crown. Which made what they were about to do all the more breathtaking.

"Our orders have arrived, Admiral," Pellaeon spoke quietly. "We're to take point with the Death Star."

Admiral Thrawn nodded. "An act of good faith from Tarkin."

Pellaeon kept his thoughts to himself, but as ever all Thrawn needed was a look to see exactly what was going through his mind. "Tarkin no longer sees me as a threat to him, Captain. So long as that persists, he will prove to be an excellent ally. Now…bring us in, Captain, if you please."

Falling back into comforting parade-ground efficiency, Pellaeon barked orders at the helmsman. The _Chimaera_, newly minted from Sluis Van and presented to its new CO in secret mere days earlier, obeyed his commands by adopting an approach path that would synchronise it with the Death Star.

Pellaeon regarded his tactical readouts. The resident system defence fleet at Coruscant was spreading out, to accommodate the new arrivals. Events were proceeding precisely to schedule.

"Comms," Thrawn broke into his thoughts, his voice icily calm. "Get me Grand Moff Tarkin. Priority channel."

Pellaeon frowned across at the Grand Admiral. Tarkin had specifically requested that Thrawn maintained radio silence until the signal for action was given; hearing the unmistakable tones of the Emperor's personally deposed _persona non grata _over the Imperial network would be a red flag to Coruscant listeners that something was not quite right.

"Captain," Thrawn continued, bringing his gaze to bear directly upon him as the Comms officer scurried to comply with his earlier request, "raise the shields."

Every head on the bridge turned to stare.

"Sir?" Pellaeon said numbly.

For the first time since he'd met him, Thrawn's eyes contained a hint of menace. "Raise the shields, Captain. _Now_."

Feeling slightly light-headed, Pellaeon complied.

"I have Grand Moff Tarkin, sir," the Comms officer said a heartbeat later. _Surprise surprise_, Pellaeon thought grimly. Thrawn had just ruined any hope of surprise this attack ever had. Tarkin would be apoplectic with rage.

"Thrawn!" Tarkin's voice thundered. "What in blazes do you think you're-"

"Surprise is no longer a factor, Grand Moff," Thrawn cut him off calmly. "Coruscant's system fleet has been encircling us since we arrived."

Pellaeon stared out the transparisteel windows of the _Chimaera_'s bridge in disbelief, before finally confirming what he was seeing with a glance at his tactical readout of the system's Imperial forces. He'd seen no-

The bridge shuddered. Green turbolaser fire peppered the shields. Pellaeon absorbed the horrifyingly fascinating sight of the Star Destroyer _Relentless_ moving broadside to their position, its turbolaser batteries pumping destruction unerringly in their direction.

"We have been betrayed," Thrawn continued, tonelessly.

Given the short length of time from the _Chimaera _raising shields, there was no way that the _Relentless _would have taken this course of action - had it not always been the intention.

Tarkin was no fool. "All ships, all captains - to battle!" he called. "Shields up! Drive for Coruscant! We make planetfall within the hour!"

The stirring speech would have to wait for some other time. Tarkin watched his bridge crew go to work, opening up the Death Star's considerable firepower upon his own former comrades. There was the small matter of victory.

His fingers curled into his chair.

And of finding a traitor.

---------------------------------------------------------

"They have anticipated your ambush," Ben pointed out mildly.

Palpatine's mood was not improved by this observation. He felt the darkness radiating out from the Emperor's throne. Those yellowed eyes regarded him coolly. "A small matter," Palpatine told him, before flicking comm switches disguised into the armrest.

Ben had no doubt that every single significant player in the Imperial network was hardwired into that throne's comms array. A sense of grandeur with a keen respect for practicality.

A holo flickered into existence.

"Commodore Hierro," Palpatine greeted the man's visage.

Even through the imperfections of his holo-image, Hierro was clearly feeling the pressure of talking to the most powerful man in the galaxy for the first - and the thought was no doubt crossing his mind, possibly the final - time. "Yes, my Lord?"

"Raise the planetary shield. Our Fleet are seeking to make planetfall."

Emotions fought for dominance over Hierro's face, not least of which was self-preservation. "Sir..." he said, his throat dry, "...several of our Star Destroyers are passing through the boundary now. In a few moments-"

"In a few moments, we may be overrun with traitors at the gates of the Palace. Raise shields, Commodore. I will not ask again."

Those last four words were said so politely, so matter-of-factly, that the cold certainty of murderous intent behind them was somehow all the more stark. Ben watched, rapt, as Hierro weighed his own life against the life of tens of thousands of Imperial troops aboard those doomed Star Destroyers, oblivious to being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Yes, my Lord," Hierro said eventually. His holo vanished.

Palpatine brought those eyes to bear upon Ben. "True power, my young Apprentice, " he said with obvious relish "lies not in a superlaser blast, but in the moulding of the hearts and minds of those who serve you. Remember that."

Ben nodded. "I will...my Master."

Palpatine sat back, satisfied for the moment. "Come to me, Vader," he said softly. "Come...if you dare."

---------------------------------------------------------

The last three seconds of Lieutenant Barron's life - along with the thirty-four thousand other troops stationed aboard his and the other four Star Destroyers flying through the space usually occupied by the planetary shield - began with the thought: _where's all the blue coming from?_

It was surrounding everything. He had time, just enough time, to stare at himself in a reflection of a transparisteel bulkhead emitting a coronal glow like some sort of azure angel, just enough time to wonder if this was some sort of new maneouvre his CO had neglected to inform him about, before his skin began to boil.

Actually there wasn't enough time for his skin to _begin _to do anything. The fringes of the planetary energy shield materialising around him, _through _him and the entire section of the Star Destroyer he was in, a shield capable of withstanding turbolaser assault from most of the Imperial fleet, a shield backed by Coruscant's truly leviathan power generators meant that Lieutenant Jarak Barron, once of Sluis Van, went from person to disassociated group of protons and electrons in an eyeblink.

Sliced in half, bisected by the energy shield, his Star Destroyer erupted in flame. The top half detonated uselessly against the newly-formed planetary shield, its enormous grid easily coping with the re-distribution of the energy burst.

Its bottom half, though mostly destroyed by fire and explosion, nonetheless retained enough of its bulk to begin to be claimed by Coruscant's gravity well.

On the surface of the ecumenopolis, shadows began to form. Coruscant's population density was nothing short of legendary. The untold millions of its citizens who found themselves within those gigantic, growing shadows had longer than Lieutenant Barron to deduce their fates, as the carcasses of shattered Star Destroyers hurtled from low orbit to smash catastrophically into the surface of Coruscant.

That extra time did not do them any good.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Can you feel it?" Palpatine hissed, his eyes closed, his face rapt.

Ben could. A wave of the Dark Side pulsed from the epicentre of each explosion, as millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were silenced in fire and death, a wave that throbbed through every fibre of his being. A Jedi would have been debilitated, close to incapacitated perhaps upon experiencing such a phenomenon.

For a Sith, it was nothing short of ecstasy.

---------------------------------------------------------

Along with the entire Imperial fleet, Pellaeon watched the impact fireballs erupt on the surface of the planet below. A cry of anguish from the pit crew told him that at least one crewmember had friends or family in those residential areas. The man began to rant and rave as Thrawn tried to issue orders.

"Rukh," Thrawn said. "Calm him."

Pellaeon had quite forgotten about Thrawn's personal bodyguard - no mean feat, considering the impression the Noghri had made on him when they'd first met. But the alien had melted so completely into the shadows on the bridge that it came as a shock when he covered the distance between himself and the grief-crazed crewmember in seconds.

His arm moved. The man went down nervelessly.

"He will live," Rukh growled, answering every crewman's unspoken question. Pellaeon let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

"I must have calm," Thrawn said, addressing them all. "There will be a time for redress, I swear to you all, but we must have victory first."

The crew's stunned stupor abated. Thrawn delivered his next set of orders and they were carried out with rigorous efficiency. Pellaeon moved closer to his Admiral while the _Chimaera _came about, the better to draw an advantage over the three loyalist Star Destroyers attempting to bottleneck them and drive them into the planetary shield below.

"Would Tarkin do it?" he asked. He had to.

Thrawn didn't have to inquire as to what he meant. "I don't know, Captain," he said quietly. Only later, much later, would Pellaeon reflect that it was the only time he ever heard the man utter those words.

"There are over nine hundred _trillion_ people on that planet," Pellaeon croaked, his throat dry even at the thought. "To destroy it, to kill one man..."

"Tarkin means to make planetfall."

_I remember Alderaan_, was what he was thinking.

"The shield can't be breached," he said aloud.

Thrawn smiled. "Nothing is impossible in battle, Captain," and he gazed down at the surface of the world below, his eyes glowing with intent, "Palpatine will discover that, sooner than he thinks."

---------------------------------------------------------

On the bridge of the _Executor_, Vader felt the waves of death from the massive explosions below pass through him, rippling up from the surface of the planet below. Ordinarily, he would have savoured the Dark Side energies; but there was something...something was _wrong _with this entire situation.

A memory jumped, unbidden, to his mind. _I sense something...a presence I've not felt since..._

Since what? Since when?

_Come to me, Vader...come if you dare..._

Palpatine's Force presence was reaching out to him, taunting him. His Coruscant fleet was outmatched, that he must know, but it would inflict serious damage upon the...Vader flinched a little, inwardly...the _rebel _Imperial forces before it could be destroyed.

With Coruscant's shield intact, Palpatine was free to hold his position and wait - wait for the Empire to schism itself down the middle, as it almost certainly would. Unfit for rule or not, there were large portions of the Imperial Navy who would never so much as dream of opposing Palpatine for fear of his lethal long-distance reprisals; the threat of Force, Vader knew only too well, was a much greater tool than Force itself.

Precisely why Tarkin had gambled on a lightning assault; with surprise and speed on their side, he had hoped to land troops on Coruscant's surface - and get Vader to the Imperial Palace. Only the Dark Lord of the Sith, Tarkin knew, stood a chance of removing the Emperor from office...permanently.

But still that itch, that irritation in his mind buzzed at him. So familiar and yet askew somehow.

_I am coming_, he sent back. _Of that, Master, you can be certain._

He reached out with the Force. Once, a Jedi Master had told him that size mattered not. He was about to put that to the test as never before.

Beneath that all-encompassing shield, only one large fragment of Star Destroyer had still to impact. Its downward trajectory had been slowed by a desperate effort from sub-orbital defence platforms, a concerted tractor beam pull that had come within a whisker of arresting the descent of half a million tons of starship. It had not been enough, however, and slowly, inevitably, that piece of Imperial hardware was beginning its final plummet to ground.

Several hundred miles away, one of Coruscant's gargantuan power generating stations sat, contentedly pumping energy into the planet it served - energy that had been diverted to the massive planetary shield erected around the entire world moments earlier.

Vader's mind wrapped itself around that piece of Star Destroyer, and with everything he had, with every single iota of hatred, anger, grief, despair and self-loathing he possessed...he _pushed._

Falling from sub-orbital heights, that push was all it took.

---------------------------------------------------------

Tarkin felt like leaping into a fighter and getting out there himself, as he'd done as a cadet so long ago. The battle was going well - the system fleet were outmatched, especially with the Death Star and the _Executor _opposing them - but with that damned shield up...

Another fireball erupted on the planet's surface.

"Hole in the planetary shield, sir!" his tactical officer blurted out, hardly able to believe what he was saying. "It's huge!"

Tarkin leapt from his chair. "Prep the assault shuttles! Tarkin to the Fleet: get _everything_ you can through that hole before it closes!"

Affirmations sounded back to him. Already he could see the Star Destroyers loyal to his cause making for the gap; invisible to the naked eye, it would nonetheless be a shining beacon to every navicomputer the Fleet possessed.

"Lord Vader-"

Vader's voice came over the comms network. Strangely, even that mechanical facsimile carried a hint of strain within it. "I am aware of it, Grand Moff. Prepare your shuttle. We will go through together."

Tarkin blinked. "Together?"

"You will be protected. Prepare your shuttle."

The transmission ended. Tarkin inhaled sharply, aware the attention of his bridge crew was fixed upon him. To shirk Vader's invitation might not be the wisest move for a man who fancied himself the next Emperor.

Suddenly, the thought of jumping into the midst of the action didn't seem quite so appealing.

---------------------------------------------------------

Blue fire arced itself around Palpatine's body, earthing into the area around his throne, causing the surface of his throne room to warp and bend as it tried and failed to absorb the dark energies.

The Emperor was not in a good mood.

"Commodore Hierro..." he hissed at the wretched man's holo, "repair that breach in the planetary shield. Now."

"It's not that easy, my Lord," Hierro replied. "The sheer amount of power needed to generate the shield in the first place - losing one of our primary generators like that... it's going to take us at least an hour t-"

He never got any further than that.

Ever.

The Emperor deactivated the holo of the man's broken body with a stray thought. His attention turned to Ben. "It seems, my young apprentice, that you will soon have ample opportunity to prove your worth."

Ben bowed. "It will be an honour to serve you, my Master."

Palpatine smiled. "You shall begin...by killing Darth Vader."

Now it was Ben's turn to smile, this time in anticipation. He hefted his lightsaber as he bowed again. "As you command...Master."

---------------------------------------------------------

Tarkin's shuttle, that which he had refused at the battle of Yavin (and rightfully so) gleamed as he strode purposefully toward it. Vader was right. It was his rightful place to be on the surface, leading the troops that would storm the Imperial Palace, sweep away the last remnants of Palpatine's failed Empire and usher in a new era.

His.

TIE fighter pilots were scrambling to their ships all around him. He would go, but naturally he would not go unprotected. Twenty-six TIE squadrons in total would be escorting him all the way - not to mention the protection that Vader had personally promised him. He smiled tightly. No, there would be no escape for Palpatine.

"Grand Moff!"

He paused, at the entrance to his shuttle's passenger bay. A familiar lithe figure was sprinting across the hangar toward him, waving a small item in her beautifully manicured hands.

"Toranne?"

She stopped before him, quite breathless. "You're going to the surface?" she said. His eyes flicked to her hands. She was holding a datapad.

He had to suppress a smile. Toranne, his personal assistant, secretary, occasional bodyguard and speechwriter these past eleven years, acted as though he were a precious stone that should never be exposed to light, let alone dropped into the middle of a civil war battlefield. This must be nothing short of torture for her.

"I'll be quite safe. Great things lie ahead for all of us," he told her, and turned to go.

"Wait," she said. When he turned back, she pressed the datapad into his hands. "A speech," she said, answering his querying look, "your victory speech."

Light as a feather, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, before dismounting the shuttle's gangplank with the grace he'd come to admire over the years.

_Thank you_, he told her with a single glance. The shuttle's ramp closed. Within moments he and his escort were making for the gap in Coruscant's shield, leaving her alone in the hangar bay.

"Be safe..." she whispered, to no-one in particular.

---------------------------------------------------------

Palpatine's monitors showed the tide of battle as it unfolded. The shield had been closed some moments ago, neatly scything apart seven assault shuttles, but in the time the breach had existed, over seventy shuttles had managed to get through and make planetfall. Those that had been able to land undamaged had aimed squarely for the Imperial Palace.

Outside these walls, Ben knew, thousands of stormtroopers on both sides were fighting street to street, building to building. His hands itched compulsively.

"Patience," Palpatine said instantly. Ben marvelled anew at the Sith Lord's ability to sense the inner emotions of those around him. "Your battle lies within these walls, not without."

But it was all Ben could do not to stare at the camfeeds. For like an angel of death, a black-suited figure was cutting through the loyalist stormtrooper ranks like they didn't exist, his lightsaber dancing through air effortlessly, here deflecting blaster bolts with lethal accuracy, there slicing bone from bone and head from body with terrifying efficiency, all the while his entire body, his whole Force presence, focussed on one destination.

Straight for them.

"He's coming home," Palpatine hissed.

"You seem calm, Master."

Palpatine cackled. "The Sith anticipate all outcomes, my young Apprentice. I have planned for this day."

Perhaps it was the adrenaline of imminent battle coursing through his veins. Whatever it was, Ben felt almost reckless. "And your Navy rebelling?" he continued. "Your own Death Star being used against you. You anticipated that, too?"

At this, Palpatine merely smiled.

---------------------------------------------------------

The fight was going well.

His troops having forged a safe beachhead, Tarkin barked orders to his squad commanders. Vader was ploughing the road to the Palace, faster almost than the stormtroopers trailing in his wake could follow, but following they were. With the assault shuttles having dropped off their troop cargo, they had risen back into the air and were busying themselves establishing air superiority over the battlefield, peppering the loyalist positions with aerial fire.

Moreover, word had reached him that several divisions of Palace stormtroopers had surrendered themselves. Those with families in the areas wiped out by the falling Star Destroyers appeared, for some reason, particularly keen to switch sides. Tarkin allowed himself another smile.

This time tomorrow, he would personally oversee his investitude as Emperor.

_Beep. Bee-Beep._

He frowned at the noise, coming from his pocket. It was the datapad Toranne had given him, flashing that he had an urgent communication. Comms between his ground troops and the orbital forces had been jammed since planetfall. Toranne must have found a way around it...

"Grand Moff," she greeted him, as he pressed the _activate _control to bring the datapad to life. "This is a recorded message," she continued, neatly cutting off his attempt to reply to her and rubbishing his earlier theory.

_Beep. Bee-Beep. _The damn datapad was still making noises.

"A few items of note, Grand Moff," Toranne's beautiful face continued, as she smiled her broad and gentle smile, "firstly - I am not from Corellia, as you previously thought. My name is not Toranne. I am, in point of fact, what some people call the Emperor's Hand."

He stared at the datapad in disbelief. He had heard of the Hands...the Emperor's innermost circle, his agents throughout the galaxy, capable of hearing and heeding his call anywhere, anytime. But Toranne...? No...no, she couldn't be...? And if she were...

_Beep. Bee-Beep._

His blood chilled.

"I am responsible for the Emperor's foreknowledge of your futile rebellion," Toranne was saying. Tarkin could hardly process it, so loud was his blood thundering in his ears. He was dimly aware of his squad commanders trying to attract his attention.

"Consider it a small repayment for what you did to Alderaan - my _true _homeworld. Know this also, Grand Moff - your precious Death Star is fitted with enough hidden explosives to annihilate it utterly at the Emperor's command. Savour this knowledge in your last few moments. Toranne..._out_."

_Beep. Bee-Be-_

The datapad, packed with the most powerful explosive in the galaxy, finally reached detonation.

Grand Moff Tarkin, the man who would be Emperor, blew apart.

---------------------------------------------------------

With a gurgling sigh, the last remaining stormtrooper between him and his destionation died on the point of his lightsaber.

Vader raised his free hand and gestured. The doors to the Throne Room flew open, revealing the long path to its occupants. The figure sitting like a spider at the apex of its web he recognised instantly.

"Palpatine," he said. The word was both accusation and statement of intent.

"Vader," his former master replied. He did not rise.

Vader walked into the Throne Room. The man standing beside the Emperor was cowled, and Vader knew now that he was the source of the strange Force presence he had been picking up since orbit.

"This is my new Apprentice," Palpatine drawled lazily, raising a hand to gesture to the cowled figure. "Darth Shada."

Shada threw back the cowl. Darth Vader stared into the face he had sought these long years, the boy he had thought lost.

"Luke..."

"Father."

_Snap-hiss_. Luke ignited his lightsaber, vaulted easily down from Palpatine's side, and raised the blade, standing directly between Vader and the Emperor. He moved like a Jedi Knight, with purpose, with skill. Vader saw in him the athleticism that had once been his hallmark, as Anakin Skywalker.

But _how_?

Vader lowered his saber. "I will not fight you."

Luke walked closer. Vader saw lines on his son's face, lines that should not exist on the face of a boy barely beyond twenty. His son looked like he had been through a lifetime of hurt. There was murderous intent in those eyes. Luke's soul burned with the fires of the Dark Side.

That brief contact Vader had shared with his son - in the Trench of the Death Star, above Yavin (though he had little suspected it was Luke) - his son's presence in the Force had been young, innocent, full of hope.

This...

"Who _are_ you?"

"Your true son," the man before him answered. He lunged with his lightsaber, forcing Vader to leap backwards and bring his blade up in defence.

They began their duel over the sound of Palpatine's delighted laughter.


	36. Forbidden Knowledge

Galaxies Apart

Thirty-Five

Mos Eisley Spaceport. It hadn't changed one iota since Luke first jinked his speeder through its bustling streets with two droids, a Jedi Master _and no questions asked _in tow.

He smiled faintly at the memory. It had seemed so simple back then. The deaths of his aunt and uncle had burned raw within him. He had visualised a grand adventure, at the climax of which he would assume his longed-for place in the galaxy and avenge their deaths in one fell swoop.

For a time, running through corridors on the Death Star, dodging death at the hands of trash compactors and stormtroopers, swinging across chasms with Princesses in tow, it had seemed like that adventure was within his grasp.

He blinked as two Gamorreans walked straight through him without stopping. The Gamorreans never flinched, but then why would they? They were half a galaxy away, on the real Tatooine.

He raised his eyes to the virtual suns. So many times he'd watched them set with that wistful hope that this might be the last time, that tomorrow Owen would see sense and free him from the farming life.

He'd gotten that freedom. But as Luke had learned to his cost over the past few years, everything we want comes with a price, whether we realise it or not.

Owen. Beru. Obi-Wan. Biggs. Leia.

Yoda.

"Turn it off."

The one who called himself Kyp Durron complied with his request. Tatooine shrank to a pinprick of light amongst billions as it was replaced by the holo of the galaxy once more. Luke walked to the consoles that Kyp was operating, taking the long way around to avoid the sleeping forms of Han and Chewie. Mara Jade, still unconscious, they had placed a little apart from the rest.

Artoo bumped against Luke's leg and whistled mournfully, sensing his former Master's emotions. He had never lost that knack, Luke reflected. Threepio – currently powered down and propped up against an adjoining console, partially to conserve power and partially at Han's suggestion/threat – might consider himself the expert on protocol, but it was his diminutive counterpart who demonstrated an innate ability to relate to humans.

Luke crouched down. Artoo lacked eyes, of course, so Luke directed his attention at the central projector the droid had used to display that fateful image of Leia so long ago and far away.

"I'm sorry for leaving you, Artoo," he said softly. "I…wasn't myself. I wanted to disconnect from everything about that day over Yavin. That included you. It was wrong and selfish of me, and I'm sorry."

After a moment, the droid made a single affirmative _beep_. A compartment slid aside in the cylindrical chassis and Artoo's grasping tool emerged and moved toward Luke's hand. That tool, Luke knew, could crush metal if it so desired, but its tiny fingers took his hand with amazing gentleness and moved it up and down. Luke grinned, understanding, and returned the gesture, shaking 'hands' with Artoo. The droid burbled happily.

"Go power down," Luke suggested, "we're gonna need your help tomorrow with those old systems."

Artoo whistled his agreement and turned smartly on his axis before gliding off. It might have been Luke's imagination but there was a zip to his movements there hadn't been only moments before. He watched as Artoo parked himself next to his eternal companion before his lights winked out.

"We need to talk."

"I had a feeling we might," Kyp replied, returning his gaze unflinchingly. The two Jedi examined each other a moment more. Luke let his mind stretch out to the sleeping forms of Han and Chewie – he was no expert in this, not yet, but he could probably tell-

"They're sound asleep," Kyp interrupted his thoughts, obviously one step ahead. "It's been an eventful day."

Luke marvelled at the understatement inherent in that, before deciding to get straight to the point.

"Why are you keeping who you are from him?"

"You saw who my mother is?" Kyp shot back. He saw the recoil on Luke's face, on his Force sense. "Yeah, I guess you did. Do _you _wanna tell him that he was supposed to have a family with her?"

"I think he already knows," Luke said. "Some part of him…it's strange; Han is no Jedi, he never will be…but he looks at you and he thinks of Leia."

Kyp wasn't prepared for that, Luke saw. The young man braced himself slightly against the console. "He does?"

Luke nodded. "What's your real name?" he asked.

"Jacen. Jacen Solo."

Luke extended a hand. Looked like this was his night for building bridges. "Good to meet you, Jacen Solo."

Jacen shook his hand and smiled such a familiar crooked smile at the absurdity of it all that Luke was astonished he hadn't realised the young man's parentage sooner. "Likewise."

"Although I guess we already know each other, right? From the other timeline?"

"Yeah," was all Jacen said in response.

"You know, it's weird," Luke said ruefully. "I know I only spent a couple of days with your mother, but I'd always kinda hoped that I would be the one to-"

Jacen held up a hand. "Stop. Just…stop right there."

Luke grinned. "You probably didn't want to know that. Sorry."

"You have _no _idea how much I don't wanna know that."

"We're gonna get her back, Jacen," Luke said, all lightness dropping from his tone. "We'll fire up this place and go back and fix this. All of us. Put things back the way they were meant to be."

"I hope so," Jacen replied, staring deep into the virtual galaxy suspended above them, as if attempting to heal its wounds simply by wishing them away.

"I have to ask you something…" Luke said.

Jacen's momentary trance was broken. "What?"

"Yoda spoke of another…another Skywalker."

He felt that ripple of Force sense – that apprehension, that nervousness – emanate outward from Jacen before it could be suppressed. "He did?"

There was no mistaking that first sense. "You know," Luke accused him, "don't you? You know who he's talking about. Don't lie to me."

Jacen inhaled sharply. "I won't. But I don't know how helpful it would be for you to know, Luke. Time travel…it's unnatural. We're all agreed on that. We're going back to repair the damage it caused. So for me, a time traveller, to tell you all of the things I know to be true, to have happened…I'm not sure that's the best thing I can do. And that's the truth."

"I have a right to know," Luke shot back.

"I agree. But not from me, Luke. I shouldn't be here. Blast it, I haven't even been _born _yet."

"What happens if we succeed? What happens if things go back to how they should be?"

Jacen was thrown by the seeming change in topic. "I…I don't know," he confessed. "Time travel theory is vague at best…we might all be trapped in the past, or…"

"Or…?"

"Or we might all just…vanish, once the galaxy goes back to normal," Jacen admitted. "If we have no reason to go back and fix damage that never took place, we may simply cease to exist. Be absorbed back into the timestream."

"So if that's true," Luke pressed on, "what does it matter what you tell me? We've all got short life expectancies anyway, right?"

"It's just a theory!" Jacen threw his hands up. "What if what I tell you changes how you act when we go back? What if that means we fail?"

"What if it means we succeed?"

"I can't take that chance!"

Luke's eyes widened as realisation struck. "You don't _trust_ me?" he said, anger rising up from within him. "That's it, isn't it? You don't _trust _me with the information you have? With the truth?"

Jacen refused to meet his eyes or answer the question. "This whole galaxy is _wrong_," he said instead. "The things that happened because of what Ben did…they've changed you, all of you, and how I remember you. I need to be sure that it hasn't changed you too much. Look at you now, Luke – you're furious at me. You haven't learned how to keep your emotions in check-"

"Ben?" Luke asked.

Jacen cursed his tongue. "Not Ben Kenobi," he reassured Luke. "Ben was…was the name of the Jedi Master who went back. He's the one we have to stop from changing the past. That _is _our mission Luke – the entire fate of the galaxy depends on it, in case you've forgotten?"

"You sure didn't get your mother's diplomatic skills."

_And you have your father's temper._

The words remained unspoken, but only just. Jacen took a deep breath, trying to stay calm – it would be a little rich of him to accuse Luke of losing it when he was close to the edge himself.

"Things may change," he settled for. "Ask me again, sometime. But for now, for the galaxy's sake, for all of ours – please Luke, let's just work together on getting this place operational. We need that portal and we need it soon."

"Why the hurry?" Luke asked. "This place has been hidden for centuries."

"_Had _been," Jacen corrected him. "Have you forgotten that there is at least one other person out there who knows exactly where it is? And since he went to such lengths to change the past, I doubt he's gonna just sit back and let us undo of all his hard work."

_Bring him on_ was the thought running through Jacen's mind as he spoke those words. Ben Skywalker had been responsible for him losing everything – for making him watch his sister Jaina die in the inferno of Site Zero's destruction.

In his dreams he could still see her…

Jedi concept or not, one way or the other he was going to have vengeance upon Luuke – Ben – whatever the hell he liked to call himself now. He would look into that twisted clone's eyes as he died.

Luke was sharp. "At _least _one other person?" he said.

Jacen's eyes fell on the still-unconscious Mara Jade. Luke absorbed his meaning instantly. "You think she-?"

"No. Not any more. But she _was_ linked to him. Even though the link is broken, I'm willing to bet her last location is like a big red X in the galaxy map to Palpatine – he has that kind of power, _and_ he knows what we're doing here," Jacen said, feeling a cold thrill go through his entire body.

Since he'd been born, he'd been told stories of the Jedi and the Sith, legends of old – the redemption of Revan, the stories of the Old Republic, and the resurgence of the Sith under Darth Sidious, the most calculating, manipulative Dark Jedi the galaxy had ever known. He had lain awake some nights as a child with Jaina talking breathlessly about what that fight aboard the second Death Star must have been like. Uncle Luke had seldom discussed it.

"He will be coming."

Both men started at that. The voice had not come from either of them, but rather from-

"Mara?" Luke said, moving over to where she lay. She refused his proffered hand and sat up herself, moving unsteadily, until she was able to rest her back against a console.

"How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough," she replied. "You're right. The Emperor will be able to track me to this location. And he _will_ be coming. That's the bad news."

"There's good news?" Luke said, hardly able to believe it.

"Take a look for yourselves."

Jacen clicked his fingers, shaking his head at his own stupidity. "The map!" he exclaimed. His fingers began to fly over the map control console.

"How are you feeling?" Luke asked her, as Jacen continued to work.

"Not dead," she replied.

It wasn't an attempt at insolence, he realised after a beat. She looked, not to be blunt, like hell. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her face, so young and unblemished, seemed older, filled with shadow. It might have just been the low light of the control room, but he knew it was more than that; it was the lingering effects of Palpatine's full-scale invasion of her body and soul.

"Yoda is dead," he told her. She simply nodded. He felt a flash of anger at that. Fine, so he hadn't been her mentor, but he had fought to save her from Palpatine's clutches, and she-

"I was with him," she said softly. "When he died," she added, catching Luke's eye, answering his unspoken question. "He spoke with me."

"You were unconscious."

"Not in the Force."

He was about to ask her more when star systems began falling through the floor as the galaxy map zoomed in and Jacen – or Kyp, he amended to himself, he would have to get used to calling him Kyp again – gasped.

"What the hell-?!" Han spluttered. Several holographic suns passing before his field of vision had pulled him from sleep. Chewbacca was stirring nearby. The Wookiee let loose with a soft howl of amazement.

They beheld the sight of half the Imperial Fleet tearing lumps out of the other half. As they watched, three Star Destroyers succeeded in blowing another Star Destroyer's ventral hull wide open. The Destroyer lurched in space and then exploded completely, its holographic death throes lighting the incredulous faces of the onlookers inside the Control Room.

"_There's_ your good news," said Mara Jade.

It began at that moment. Every single control panel in the huge room lit up, their lights and displays sparkling, whirring, fizzing with activity and power. The illuminations in the room increased to such a degree that everyone was forced to shield their eyes against the sudden jump in brightness.

A _thrummmmm _of power began to vibrate through the entire control room. Unknown to all gathered there, it had been building throughout the huge array since Palpatine's Force lightning had been discharged into the floor during the battle with Yoda. The energies contained within that lightning had jump-started the ancient systems within Site Zero back to full operational capacity. Power had been restored.

"What's happening?" Han cried. The floor beneath them was shaking almost imperceptibly, but no-one could have missed the build-up of power emanating from all around them. The Force-sensitives in the room clutched their heads – the power increase was being followed by an intensifying echo in the Force. To Luke and Mara, it was like nothing they'd ever experienced.

But Kyp…

"It's starting!" he called, his voice full of nervous excitement. "The station is charged up! It's getting ready to generate a portal!"

"No kidding?"

"No kidding," Kyp beamed at Han, blissfully unaware of just how wrong he would prove to be. "Sometime in the next twelve hours, Han ol' buddy, every single one of us is going back in time."


	37. Letting Go

Galaxies Apart

Thirty Six

Days aboard the _Alderaan_ were set to Galactic standard. At a preordained time, a soft series of alarms would sound, and across the huge vessel the 'day shift' slowly left their posts to be replaced by their 'night shift' counterparts.

Night on starships made Wedge Antilles uneasy. Any sort of notion of day or night in deep space was, after all, an artificial concept. Seventy percent of the active crew changed places for thirty percent, and with the Death Star running on what amounted to a skeleton crew as it was…

He knew that since the _Alderaan _was still locked in hyperspace. The safety provided by the faster-than-light tunnel they were currently traversing was impenetrable, and would remain so until they dropped to sublight at the edge of the Coruscant system. At that time, they'd have plenty of real, tangible threats to worry about.

Wedge knew all of this. He also knew the real reason why he couldn't relax, even if he hadn't admitted it to himself yet.

And so he'd taken to spending an hour or two of his precious off-duty time every night here. The only section of the ship which did not, could not, slow down. Ever.

The Death Star's reactor core.

Superlaser technology had been _theoretically _discussed for a long time previous to the establishment of the Empire. Under the Old Republic, however, such technological advances – particularly those with such grave military applications – had been carefully regulated by the myriad committees and sub-committees which perforated the Republic's legendary bureaucracy.

Once installed as Emperor, Palpatine showed no patience for such caution. Military technology had advanced at a frightening pace; more innovations had been unveiled in the last twenty years than in the last three hundred. He was standing in the nerve centre of the greatest example of them all.

Given its speed of development, though, the Death Star's reactor was not the most stable of constructs…which led to a rather stressful existence for the technicians charged with keeping it together.

The crewmembers in question pinged around the place like trapped molecules, bouncing from minor power fluctuation to possible containment loss with frightening regularity.

Perhaps it was just that knife-edge verve he found so thoroughly exhilarating about this place. Not to mention the view…

The cavernous interior of the Reactor Core was on a scale the human mind almost couldn't comprehend. Star Destroyers could have circled the central installation without difficulty. The entire Core was perfectly symmetrical; huge banks of capacitors grew into a central trunk which rose up from the floor below, just as directly above they descended from the ceiling above.

Main Stage superlaser beams arced around their captive circuits, grounding themselves here and there into massive capacitor arrays with a shriek of power.

At the exact centre of the Core, where the central capacitor rose from the floor and descended from the ceiling, there was a gap between the two of around a mile. This gap was the central power conduit, constantly in a state of flux, a huge stable beam of energy that bathed the Core in its glow.

Exotic matter reactions within this beam were what provided the _Alderaan _with its power requirements. Wedge didn't pretend to understand the exact science of it all, but you didn't need to do that to appreciate the splendour of the sight.

And yet…at the back of his mind, his fighter pilot instincts were mulling over the possibilities…_bring a few X-Wings in through the access port – a few proton torpedos to the primary power regulators…another few to the central conduit and the entire top half of this Core would implode into the bottom half. _

He grunted. _Of course, you'd have to race the chain reaction out to the surface and there's no way out…unless you had a time machine and went back to when this thing was being constructed-_

That had been the Alliance's original plan. To strike at the Death Star whilst still under construction, to try to take out the Reactor Core. It had potential – he had examined the schematics personally – but the one slight concern that had been pointed out was that, if successful, the entire planet of Sluis Van, population three million Imperials, two billion Sluissi, would have been completely destroyed…

"Wedge?"

He turned, surprised. "Winter? What are you doing down here?"

"I called to your quarters but you'd gone. So I asked further on down the corridor. Your squadron were veryhelpful."

"I'll bet they were," he muttered darkly.

Winter crossed the final few steps to join him at the edge. Placing her hands on the guardrail, she leant over. The floor of the reactor core, so far beneath them it hurt to even think of it, was alive with various currents and streams, each one a single turbolaser.

Wedge knew that these tiny tributaries were reflected along careful paths, gathered and coalesced in the twenty-one pooling chambers to the north until these new beams were redirected to the Main Stage chambers in the south.

When he had seen this astonishing sight for the first time, a grudging admiration had crept over him for the sort of genius who could visualise this sort of high science. He wondered who had designed the Death Stars. Did they know what they had caused? Did they have a choice?

"It's beautiful," Winter said, gazing downward intently.

He glanced over at her. "Yeah," he agreed, not restricting his comment to the laser nursery.

Seeming to catch the mood change, she straightened. "Wedge…" she began, "…the past few years haven't exactly been easy for any of us. You were almost killed on Fest. You spent a month inside a bacta tank."

Fest's wounds were still raw. They'd gone in to rescue an Alliance commando team who'd procured three All-Terrain Personnel Transports, the smaller, faster versions of the more familiar AT-STs. Gone in with Speeders, because of the risk that the Imperials would pull out their huge AT-AT walkers.

The mission had been a disaster. Wedge's Speeder had gone down under intense fire. He lost four pilots that day, and was lucky to escape with his own life – the drop ship had circled back and picked up his signal from the wilderness.

For almost a day he had lain there, buried in freezing snow for warmth, too injured to stop the blood slowly seeping from his wounds.

"And," Winter continued, "there was Sluis Van…"

She could see the expression flicker across his face, and she knew she'd been right all along. "Perils of war," Wedge replied stiffly, returning his full attention to staring into nothing.

"They shouldn't have asked you to do what you did."

His mind flashed back to the shipyards. To sending that remote-piloted X-Wing off, its torpedo bays stuffed with highly explosive corrosite ore, on a collision course with a Star Destroyer he knew wouldn't be able to raise shields in time.

"We had to create enough panic to get Crix's commandos aboard the Death Star. If we hadn't scored one big hit, if we'd just seemed like a bunch of X-Wings taking a potshot, we never would have gained control of the _Alderaan _like we did."

She nodded as he talked. Didn't agree or disagree, frown or smile, just nodded, her eyes full of compassion.

And then, she waited.

They stared out together for some time. Wedge felt the words, the feelings, work themselves up from somewhere deep within him. He gripped the guardrail tightly until he couldn't contain them any longer.

"It wasn't _right_," he whispered. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt Winter's hand on his shoulder.

"I know," she whispered back.

"I've destroyed ships before…I've pounded TIEs until they explode and sometimes you can _see _the pilot's body in the fireball. But this…" he sighed and exhaled, steadying his emotions, "…this was like something…you know, we're meant to be fighting the Empire because of the things they do. Alderaan. Order 66. And I always believed that we were right. But if we're…" he trailed off, unable to continue.

"If we're no better, what right do we have?" Winter supplied.

"Not _we_, Winter. _Me_. Yeah, I was given those orders to destroy that ship, but we've all wondered how Imperials have carried out orders that make us sick to the stomach. We've all asked how the hell Tarkin's technicians go through with charging the superlaser on their Death Star, when they _know _they're about to cause the deaths of billions of innocent people? And now I find out that hey, what d'you know…" he stared into her eyes for the first time since the topic had changed, "…I can do it, too."

"Wedge…what's going to happen when we get to Coruscant?"

"I don't know. We've got allies who make the Empire seem warm and cuddly, a weapon capable of destroying the most populated planet in the galaxy, and the worst of it is, Winter…I'm not sure if we're bluffing any more."

A minor containment leak must have occurred below, for at that moment there was a slight _buzz _of current and, in perfect synchronicity, Wedge and Winter both let go of the guardrail, exclaiming in shock and pain as an electric charge grounded itself through them.

Sparks earthed themselves around them. Wordlessly, Wedge took Winter's hands in his, absorbing some of the current. He couldn't distinguish between the active current and the natural shiver of excitement which passed through him at her touch.

"Thank you," she said, more taken by surprise than in actual pain – the charge hadn't been that strong.

He made no move to pull his hands away from holding hers. Her eyes fell downward to take in the gesture. They had been through a lot in the last few years. He had gone from admiring her tenacity and her courage to simply adoring her some time ago, but as ever with Wedge, he didn't have the first clue how she felt about him.

"The Empire destroyed my homeworld, Wedge," she told him. "Everyone I cared about…my friends, my family…they died at a whim. They died to send a _message_."

His heart sank. Winter had suffered more than most because of the abuse of power, and he had just confessed to doubting his own ethics. No doubt in her eyes he was as bad as those who had ordered the obliteration of Alderaan; weak-willed, unable to see beyond orders into doing what was right.

He tried to pull his hands away. She stopped him. He looked at her in surprise, and his heart leapt to see how she looked at him.

"You are," she said softly, "one of the gentlest, most moral men I have ever met, Wedge Antilles. You destroyed a ship of soldiers, not a planet of innocents, and you did it so we could have a chance to make this galaxy right again…and yet even that cost you enough for you to come down here and suffer. War has made you a warrior. Not a monster."

It was astonishing how much those words managed to wash away the guilt that had plagued him since Sluis Van. He felt stronger, stood straighter, a load lifted from his shoulders he hadn't wanted to admit was there in the first place.

"I don't know what to say," he said, not altogether truthfully, for he knew exactlywhat he wanted to say to her.

She kissed him then, hungrily and forcefully. Caught unawares, his arms pinwheeled for purchase in thin air to no avail. With a long, rather enjoyable _ooommphhh_… both fell to the deck.

The kiss ended. Winter's face hovered inches above his, wearing a satisfied grin. A noise from behind them quite unlike the usual buzzings and cracklings of the Core made them both look.

Wedge took in the sight of a contingent of Reactor Core technicians standing on a nearby gangway, giving them a resounding round of applause.

He reddened. Winter waved cheerfully.

"Don't you guys have breaches to contain?" he called. The technicians laughed, and resumed their perpetual waltz from station to station.

He looked up to Winter. "Um…" he said, not knowing how to broach a potentially sensitive question that suddenly clamoured for attention in his mind, amongst other places.

She flipped backward, grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet, all in one smooth acrobatic motion.

"Yes," she said. "_Now_."

Wedge shrugged in a mock resigned, world-weary kinda way, and started to run after her.


	38. Vader vs Sidious: Part II

**Galaxies Apart**

**Thirty Seven**

Vader battled in silence.

It wasn't always so, of course; debate and discussion in the midst of a lightsaber duel-to-the-death undoubtedly had their place, and he'd indulged in both on many occasions. Not least on which was on a certain volcanic planet, a lifetime ago…

But here and now, at this moment, he did not utter a word, did not break his concentration for even a microsecond. His opponent did likewise. In fact, throughout the first few minutes they'd been duelling, Palpatine had done all of the talking. His words of encouragement from the sidelines had also been a feature of quite a few of Vader's duels.

Never before, however, had they been directed at his opponent.

The blades flashed. Luke – or whomever he was – was a worthy adversary, that much was certain. He had studied several of the old techniques, and already had shown a capacity to invent a few of his own should the need arise.

Vader pressed forward, landing a flurry of thrusts to Luke's torso. The younger man was equal to the task of blocking them, spinning his saber to intercept every probing strike, turn aside the point of Vader's blade and even force Vader into a defensive stance with a few powerful counter-moves of his own.

Luke's face, though lined with the age and hurt he'd noticed so clearly moments before, was composed and calm. Vader felt himself probe the mind behind; in many ways, the spinning of the sabers was only the top layer of a Jedi duel. Behind the physical curtain, an entirely different but no less intense war was progressing; not of the body, but of the spirit.

Many duels had been lost not due to a combatant's skill with the blade, but their capability to resist the opponent dulling their mind, slowing their reflexes, filling their thoughts with horrors unimaginable or the certainty of their own defeat. Some Sith Masters had been powerful enough to cause their would-be assassins to fall on their sabers without ever having to spark their own blade into life.

Seldom were lightsaber battles between equally matched foes settled in the first few exchanges. More often, these initial rounds were designed to test the opponent, examine their strengths and weaknesses. That was what Vader and Luke were doing now. They knew it.

So, clearly, did Palpatine.

"Enough of this," he growled, standing at the top of the dias that led to his throne, glowering down at them from on high, a malevolent God. "My time and my patience are not without limits. Kill him and take his place, or fall and die."

They were around ten feet from each other at this point, sabers raised and at the ready. Vader could sense the change in stance from his son. Playtime was over.

Very well.

They came together in a roar of movement and energy, blades cutting ribbons of light through the air, the hum of their movement and the clash of their collisions ringing through the Throne Room.

The time for silence had passed. Though the pace of battle never relented, Vader and his opponent found time to speak between flurrys, thrusts and parrys, between leaps and dodges and backflips.

"Why are you doing this?"

"To take my place."

"By taking mine?"

"You don't deserve what was given to you."

"You're my son."

"I know."

"Who told you?"

"Your daughter did."

Vader's saber faltered in its projected path by a fraction. Enough to change the path of battle. Luke pressed his advantage, pushing his father relentlessly back into an overhanging gangway, which would begin to restrict Vader's movement.

"I have no daughter," Vader said, though he knew by the sense in his son's mind that he spoke the truth. His mind raced, distracted, and because of that his saber responses began to lag fatally.

"Not now you don't."

"She's dead?"

"She's dead. Not long after you tortured her and made her watch her homeworld go up in flames."

The enormity of the truth hit him like a series of shockwaves. He had been so focussed on finding his son for all these years, his only child, that the mere thought that he could have had more had never even occurred to him. And to learn that he had, indeed, fathered a second child, a baby daughter…

…a daughter that Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan the traitor, the snake, the stinking piece of flea-bitten bantha fodder, may his cursed body rot, had hidden from him…

…a daughter who had grown up to despise him, who had been one of the founding activists of the Rebel Alliance…

…a daughter he had personally _tortured_ aboard the Death Star.

_And now, your Highness, we will discuss the location of your hidden Rebel base. _He had spoken those words to her before the entrance of the mind probe droid into her cell. So defiant until then, she had shrank from that terrible device, cowered slightly from the needle until he…by the Force…he had to-

The Force yanked him back to the here and now, screaming a last-ditch warning at him, puppeting his arm up to block a lunging thrust from Luke that would have cleaved his head from his shoulders had it impacted.

Vader used his confusion, his rage and fury, and _pushed _his son back with the Force. Closing in for the kill, Luke was taken unawares. He tumbled head-over-heels, allowing Vader to vault clear of the confined space he had been backing toward, giving him space to breathe and think and regroup, because Luke was already back on his feet and coming toward him-

Their blades met once more. The impact reverberated throughout the Throne Room. Palpatine descended the dias to get closer to them, his pale features lit by the dancing, strobing light of their blades.

Neither man pulled their blade away, pushing bodily against the other's saber, backing their physical strength up by calling on the Force. Vader sensed that his son was calling on the Dark Side just as he was. He was astonished to feel a sense of disappointment. Long had he dreamed of tutoring his son in the pleasures and skills of the Dark Side, and yet now…seeing his son filled with anger and hate, he felt a palpable sense of sadness.

What had happened to Luke – to _whoever _this was who wore Luke's face and had his Force sense, warped or not – what had happened to turn him so completely, so quickly?

"He begins to understand," Palpatine broke into his thoughts.

Vader's head snapped around at his former Master's voice. Without a second thought his arm moved forward and back and he sent his lightsaber arrowing for the Emperor's neck. As the blade flew and Luke reacted to its trajectory, Vader leapt forward and grabbed his son's wrist where it held the saber.

It was a bold tactic, completely unorthodox, and one that came within a hair of working. Palpatine, moving with a speed that belied his advanced years and hinted at the power that lurked within, twisted his entire body under the spinning edge that would have left him headless. The saber carried on spinning for a half-meter, then froze in mid-air, its blade pointing vertically at the ceiling for an instant before being retracted with a stray thought from the Emperor.

Lightning crackled along Palpatine's arms, even as Vader and Luke remained locked together. His expression contorted in rage.

"You will be _destroyed_," he hissed.

Lightning loosed itself from his fingertips. Never a pinpoint weapon at the best of times, its tendrils slammed into both Vader and Luke indiscriminately, coursing and crackling through both their bodies.

The pain was a living being. The pain was sitting on Vader's chest, smiling at him as it reached inside and ripped out his heart, his organs, his electronics. He had been exposed to agonies in his existence, that was a fact that no-one could have denied, and yet nothing had ever come close to this. Force Lightning was more than simply the Dark Side; it was all of its casters evil, all of their malice and bitterness.

It was the darkness of their soul reverberating through every cell, nerve ending, organ, every tiny corner of your mind.

The smell of ozone filtered through his olfactory sensors. He ignored it. What he couldn't ignore was his son's screams of pain.

Luke's grip on his lightsaber lessened. Vader was able to pluck his son's weapon from his hand. He could have used it then and there to end the fight, but instead he threw his son to the side, out of the range of the Emperor's assault. Luke slid to a halt on the polished floor, gasping for breath.

Vader raised the saber his son had wielded, his own saber from so long ago, not the red saber of the Sith but the blue of the Jedi. Palpatine's lightning spread itself across the blade as Vader focussed his mind, redirecting the Dark Side energies seeking to destroy him into the saber crystal where they would be re-dispersed back into the Force.

The lightning stopped.

Still gasping in pain, Ben Skywalker watched from the floor as Palpatine outstretched his hand. A moment later, Darth Vader's flung lightsaber dropped neatly into his palm. Its red blade sprang into existence a heartbeat later.

Master and Apprentice, Sidious and Vader, red and blue, faced each other as never before.

_He threw me out of range when he could have killed me. I was trying to kill him and take his place, take the only life he's ever known away from him, and when I was in pain his only thought was to protect me. _

"I did it," he called out suddenly. He was speaking to his father. "I time-travelled from the future. I changed history. The Death Star should have been destroyed by Luke at Yavin IV, and the Empire eventually with it."

Vader didn't turn to acknowledge his words, but Ben knew his father had heard them nonetheless.

"Then it is true that I tortured my daughter," was all Vader said in response, his attention still unwaveringly focussed on Palpatine, "but it was _you_ who killed her."

"You will soon join her," Palpatine assured him, as Ben processed what he had just heard, no longer sure if the pain within him was due solely to the lightning.

"You are finished, _Master_," Vader responded.

"You should have done this years ago," Palpatine growled. "It is the way of the Sith. And yet you were too weak, Darth. Always too weak. I once had such high hopes for you."

Ben felt the change in the air, in the Force, and knew battle was about to commence.

"So did I," Vader replied.

He charged.

It was unlike any duel Ben had ever seen. There was no semblance of form, of structure, no hint of any of the much-vaunted saber techniques he had studied so diligently. These two opponents were not remotely interested in testing each other's capabilities, in playing it safe.

Each, instead, was hellbent on exactly one thing – getting at his opponent and ripping him to shreds.

A Force-created cyclone began to whip through the confines of the Throne Room, battering Ben as he staggered to his feet, as he backed off from the sheer unwavering ferocity of the battle. When saber met saber, each blade seemed a whisper from cutting through the other, such was the power and emotion behind each swing.

The wind picked up speed. The Emperor had been something of a collector and had filled his Throne Room with many trophies. All but the heaviest of these were now airborne, part of the circular maelstrom ringing the room with the two adversaries at the eye of the storm. Ben was forced to stay close to the fight lest he be torn to pieces by the debris of hubris.

Astonishingly, through a fight this intense, his father found a way to speak to him still, though he had to increase the volume of his speech above the deepening roar of the Force storm gathering pace around them.

"He has lied to you, as he has lied to us all."

"Do not listen to him!" Palpatine cried, his teeth clacking together as lightning sprang from his fingertips and wound its way _around _his saber, seeming to strengthen the blade as he brought it to bear again, and again, on Vader's. "You are Darth Shada! You stand to inherit the Empire and lead it to glory!"

"He faces a rebellion amongst his own troops. He has no power," though necessarily loud to rise above the roar, Vader's voice was remarkably level.

Palpatine smiled a dangerous smile. "We will see," was all he said. As ever, the Force was the acid test of truthfulness behind all words, and Ben felt a thrill of anticipation race down his spine. Despite the truth of what Vader was saying, Palpatine remained absolutely _certain _that he held all the cards.

"He created the Rebellion," Vader continued, as both he and Palpatine ceased their unending saber thrusts and simply held out their palms, both Force presences pushing against the other, probing for an opening that would send the other spinning back into what was by now merely the rubble of the Throne Room's former furnishings, a priceless shapeless mess of keepsakes hurtling crazily at hundreds of miles per hour in a lethal spiral.

"Just as he created the Trade Federation and the Confederacy to gain power, so he created the Rebel Alliance to maintain that power. He _planned _for the destruction of the Death Star you saved. You've cost him his stranglehold on the Navy. Do you think he'll forgive you that? Do you th-"

Both men stumbled backward, the Force-pushing contest a stalemate. With a primal roar Palpatine leapt into his opponent, saber flying. Ben lost track of which limb belonged to whom as both men's movements accelerated beyond the physically possible, draining greedily on the Dark Side energies until they were so immersed within it as to be an extension of that great invisible emptiness.

He risked a glance at the whirlpool of destruction still spinning all around them. No-one would be able to enter the Throne Room until that storm dissipated.

And when that happened, one of Darth Vader or the Emperor would be dead.

---------------------------------------------------------

The invading Imperial forces, that mysterious explosion behind their front lines aside, had made excellent progress since planetfall. Defending forces had been forced to fall back, ceding more and more ground in a collapsing circle with the Imperial Palace at Ground Zero.

Every single stormtrooper surrounding the Palace was prepared to lay down their lives if it meant defending those hallowed walls from these traitors.

Unknown to quite a few of these staunch defenders, however, that process had already begun some time ago.

A small group was moving through the Palace with an efficiency of deed and thought as remarkable as it was seemingly effortless. They fanned out at a gesture, closed ranks in an instant. Any single or group of stormtroopers who found themselves caught in the jaws of the group's sudden pincer closing manoeuvres barely had time to register surprise at being so totally caught flat before being coldly and completely despatched.

Scarcely had the corpses of those they encountered hit the deck before the group was on the move once again, absolutely silent in their advance, never stalling from its destination.

Each member of the group carried a backpack.

Each was heading for the Throne Room.

The Noghri would not be denied.

---------------------------------------------------------

The high-speed deadly ballet had finally been arrested in mid-flow. Ben stood at the bottom of the dias to the Imperial Throne itself as, not more than fifteen feet from him, Darth Vader stood over the man he had called Master for so long. Ben could not tear his eyes away, could barely move. Even the hurricane around the room's perimeter had frozen in place.

"You are beaten," Vader hissed. "Your Fleet is lost to you. Your greatest weapon turned against you."

"You fool. I will become the greatest Sith Lord the galaxy has ever known. I will revel in so much death, absorb so much suffering, that no-one will be able to face me."

A memory clicked in Ben's mind. He had asked Palpatine about foreseeing the Death Star turning against him…_I have planned for this day_.

Those yellow eyes turned to him. "Your son is more perceptive than you, Lord Vader," Palpatine said mockingly.

"It's a trap," Ben said, hardly able to believe it.

"Indeed!" Palpatine agreed delightedly, rising like a demon from the floor and striking Vader with an outstretched claw, knocking Vader aside and enabling him to regain his posture. The red blade was back in his hand a moment later.

"With a single thought to my Hand," he went on, drawing out the words with obvious relish, "the Death Star will be obliterated from existence. Do you really think I would stop at a rigged exhaust port? One way or the other, that _thing _up there _will _be destroyed. And when it dies, Darth, when it blows itself apart and takes every single traitorous Grand Moff and Admiral and their ships with it…"

Ben couldn't grasp the scope of what he was hearing. "That big an explosion…this close to Coruscant…"

Palpatine's smile was lustful at the very prospect of it. "The death toll will be unimaginable. That many hundreds of billions of lives, extinguished at _my _whim. Imagine. Imagine the scale of the dark energies unleashed at such an act. I. Will. Be. _Unstoppable_."

Vader said nothing.

"And when it's done…I will rebuild. Coruscant. The Empire. In my image. A new beginning for the Sith."

"No."

Ben was hardly aware the word had escaped him. All he knew was that he was standing side-by-side with his father without ever really being conscious of moving. He glanced at Darth, and got the slightest of nods from that infamous visage.

It was enough.

"So," Palpatine drawled in disgust, "you are as weak as he is. Small matter. Perhaps the _real _Luke Skywalker will be more appreciative of the chances you have forsaken."

Ben felt his father's reaction to that. He had hoped, somehow, to survive this and never to have to tell his father who…_what_…he really was. That was gone. Palpatine had wiped it away. He saw the wicked smile on the Emperor's lips. Still, Vader said nothing. Ben wanted desperately for his father to spring into action as he had so recently, to defend him or to defend the galaxy by striking down this monster. But his father uttered not a word. Ben despaired. Had his resolve fled in the face of Palpatine's words?

"You talk too much," Vader said. And looked up.

Ben did likewise, and realised four important things.

Firstly, Vader's silence had not been accidental. Secondly, a group of Noghri commandos had penetrated the Throne Room through a ceiling access port. Thirdly, the Force hurricane had been paused, by Vader, for a very specific reason; specifically, to allow the Noghri unrestricted access to the room and permit them to set up a broadcast signal and pick up what was being said by those below.

Palpatine's entire speech about the eradication of the Death Star and the resultant destruction of huge swathes of the Fleet and the surface of Coruscant had just been broadcast to the entire Imperial Network.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Hails coming in from all over the defending Fleet, Admiral," Pellaeon said, a now-familiar sense of amazement slowly receding to be replaced by a rapidly-becoming-familiar sense of pride. "The communications blackout has been lifted. They're surrendering to our authority."

Thrawn permitted himself a smile. "Welcome them, Captain," he replied. "Welcome them to the New Empire."

---------------------------------------------------------

"No…" Palpatine breathed. Ben had seen him angry before, but never had he seen the man beaten. Palpatine seemed to deflate visibly before his eyes. "No…you can't _do _this…"

"It is done," Vader said simply. "Our time commanding the Empire is over."

"NO!" Palpatine screamed. He placed his hands to his temples and closed his eyes. Ben's momentary confusion over the gesture was replaced when he sensed the strength of the Force-based communication that suddenly emanated from Palpatine. A communication bound for-

"He's sending the destruction order!" Ben cried. "Stop him!" 

Vader gathered himself to leap the distance, but before he could move seven lithe, compact Noghri bodies dropped noiselessly the thirty or more feet from the ceiling, suspended by thin wires which snapped at a shoulder movement. Ben admired their courage but against the Emperor, they'd last little more than an instant.

As if to prove his point, Palpatine's lip curled in contempt. He raised his hands to unleash a hail of lighting that would scythe through the Noghri ranks.

"Activate," the Noghri on point growled. Backpacks worn by each of the Noghri ceased to emit a soft blue glow.

Palpatine's lightning died stillborn from his fingertips.

Ben staggered to his knees in shock as he felt the Force flee from him. Even as the pain from his muscles (muscles suddenly no longer comforted by Jedi pain-relieving meditations) flared, the truth hit him.

Each of those backpacks had, until now, been emitting a small stasis field. Just big enough to contain a single ysalamiri.

"What…what is this…what have you _done_," the Emperor choked with anguish, shaking in fury and humiliation and looking, for the first time in some decades Ben guessed, like nothing more than a frail old man.

Ben could only watch as the Noghri fanned out expertly, three to the Emperor and two each for he and Vader. Lightsabers were removed and deactivated. Vader did not seem inclined to resist. Palpatine did not seem capable of it.

"Admiral," the Noghri who had spoken earlier replied, touching his communicator and ignoring Palpatine completely. "Mission accomplished. Targets have been contained as ordered."

"_Excellent work, Khabarakh_," the unmistakable voice of Thrawn responded. "_Maintain your position and continue to contain targets until reinforcements arrive._"

"Yes, Admiral," the one called Khabarakh responded evenly.

"You're too late," Palpatine said smugly. "Too late. Soon the skies will be red with blood and fire and the Force shall return to me."

Ben's blood chilled. _The order-_

"Thrawn," Vader called out. "You must find the Emperor's operative aboard the Death Star. She has orders to activate a self-destruct sequence that will destroy the station. Hurry."

"_Noted, Lord Vader. Until we speak again_."

The communication died. Only now did Palpatine seem to snap to his senses and try to struggle against his Noghri captors. They overpowered him easily. It was fascinating to watch this man, the centre of Galactic intrigue for two generations, so completely humbled so quickly.

"Your homeworld is poisoned," he spat at the Noghri restraining him, "the cleanup operation Lord Vader promised you a sham, designed to keep you in servitude. Free me and I shall restore life to Honoghr!"

Khabarakh did no more than glance at him with a pitying expression, before turning to Vader. He bowed low. "Our apologies, _Ary'ush_," he growled, "it is our hope that you remain pleased with the services of your Noghri subjects."

Ben looked from Khabarakh to Vader. He knew, of course, of the great Vader-masterminded con that had been the cleanup of Honoghr until Leia Organa Solo had uncovered it, robbing the Empire of its greatest commando pool and delivering one of the New Republic's staunchest allies into the bargain.

"I am pleased," Vader replied. That was all.

Ben heard no more. Robbed of the Force to draw on, the exhaustion and exertion of recent events took their toll. His last thought, as he slipped gratefully into blackness, was _Leia would have been so proud…_


	39. Hands of Fate

Galaxies Apart

Thirty Eight

Duty. Toranne had lived her life by that watchword. Fourteen years before, she had been plucked from obscurity, a bright but otherwise nondescript ten-year-old girl in one of Alderaan's lesser cities. They had come for her one morning while she was at lessons. Her mother and father must have been so proud to think that their only daughter had been selected for a special training programme to serve none other than the Emperor himself.

Strange. Her memories were fuzzy, undoubtedly, but they hadn't seemed proud. Her mother had hugged her fiercely and for such a long time that Toranne had wondered if she was ever planning on letting go. As her shuttle rocketed into orbit and away from them, she remembered her father's paleness, the redness around his eyes.

They had died ten months later. Speeder accident. Her new masters allowed her to go back and attend to the funeral, where she encountered aunts and cousins and extended family. All were struck by how much little Toranne had already changed. A solitary tear during the memorial service seemed her only concession to an outward display of emotion. She refused several offers to come back to the extended family, stay with relatives. Stay? Stay and give up her position? Turn her back on her duty?

Never.

It was all made clear to her as the months and years passed. Emperor Palpatine had personally initiated a galactic search for a servant in tune with the Force. Not a Jedi, not a Sith; not exactly. Lord Vader was his emissary in that regard – he needed no other. No, what Palpatine sought was someone who could be in constant contact with him without the need for bothersome technology. A field agent who could be relied upon above all others to carry out his orders with utmost speed and efficiency.

And out of that search, she alone had been deemed worthy. She alone would hold the honour of being named Emperor's Hand.

At the ceremony of initiation, she had felt proud fit to burst. Palpatine had become more than a sponsor, more than a mentor to her. She worshipped him completely and would have gladly laid down her life to serve him.

Five years almost to the day after that glorious ceremony, that day arrived.

She was working at a comms station when she felt the telltale brush of his mind against hers. He was always with her, of course, but normally his presence inside her was ethereal, insubstantial. Not now. He filled her suddenly, so quickly and completely that she staggered slightly against the console.

_The time has come, Toranne. Wipe them out. _

Now? At this time? With the Death Star holding a close orbit above a city-planet like Coruscant? This embryonic response formed reflexively in her brain-

Heads turned around her as she cried out. The pain drove her to her knees. The connection she had been so very proud of was now being used to transmit agonies to her, a long distance version of his infamous lightning strobed through with visions of her own grisly fate if she _dared_ to question his orders again.

And then-

He was gone. Completely gone. She gasped involuntarily, as if suddenly plunged into engine coolant. A part of his soul had been lodged deep within her mind for as long as she could remember. It had grown into a part of her, a secret mental place she could return to and draw resolve from; a bottomless well of strength.

She felt alone. Small, helpless, and _alone_ without him. Where had he gone? Had he done this as a punishment? Would he come back? She wanted to scream, to run to a viewscreen and try to hail him, to fall to her knees and beg-

"Are you ill?" the Lieutenant working alongside her asked.

She stood up, unsteadily. "I should report to Medical," she managed, and walked away before he could press the issue further.

As the doors slid shut behind her and she found herself on one of the immense connecting promenades the Death Star possessed, Toranne was dizzy with despair. She had to get him back. Had to please him. How to please him?

Yes. _Yes_…

No-one gave her a second glance as she moved through the decks toward the Death Star's central elevator hub. Why would they? As personal assistant to Grand Moff Tarkin (_the late _Grand Moff Tarkin, she reminded herself with a savage smile) she commanded power and respect throughout the crew.

She would do her duty. Palpatine had ordered that the long-dormant self-destruct sequence be activated. He had not specified the delay time, however.

She reached the room whose location she had been required to memorise. It was a power substation relay access room, one of hundreds scattered across the axis of the great behemoth. Unlike its brothers, however, this station had an extra surprise.

A twist of a hand and a hidden panel popped open, revealing a simple keypad that even if discovered would not have raised suspicions. Her fingers flew across the keys, entering the 30-digit number that activated buried code within the computer systems of the Death Star. Within moments a power surge would begin that the central reactor core would fail to report and its safety systems fail to notice.

Half an hour from now, the Death Star would be nothing more than a shockwave of debris.

By then, her personal shuttle would be well out of range. She had no doubts that the Emperor would survive the destruction rained down on Coruscant by the Death Star's demise. Eventually, she would rejoin her Master at his side and he would see fit to restore their connection. She knew it to be true. It was only fitting.

She would pay him back for all he had done for her.

---------------------------------------------------------

Watching Site Zero come to life was like having been swallowed by some huge beast that was slowly but surely slumbering into life around you. Power flowed through circuits that had not been active in who knew how many years. As more and more systems reactivated, the harmonics they had begun to detect hours previously had built into a constant low roar of vibration that made talking, made _thinking_ difficult.

That wasn't what was bothering Mara Jade.

She had volunteered to go back to the _Millennium Falcon _to assist in retrieving further power couplings Kyp had announced would be needed for him to attempt to generate a time portal from the Control Room. Not entirely to her surprise, Solo had managed to insist without saying much that she be accompanied on the trip back to his ship.

It was the choice of volunteer for her companion that _had _surprised her.

"How are you holding up?"

She gritted her teeth and glared at the man walking beside her. He showed no signs of acknowledging her attention, though it would have taken someone with hide as thick as a bantha not to have felt the heat of her gaze.

"Wanting to know whether you can turn your back on me, Skywalker?"

Now he did glance over. There was no annoyance in his face, she noted (to her annoyance), merely a hint of bemusement. "Do you look for the ulterior motive behind everything anyone says, or am I a special case?"

"Call it a good habit."

They were an hour from the _Falcon_, at leisurely walking pace. Skywalker had begun the journey at what was practically a jog and had quickly ascertained that Mara simply wasn't up to the pace yet. She was still recovering from the after-effects of Palpatine's puppeteering act. He had slowed down to a comfortable pace without saying a word. She had deliberately pushed that pace back up to uncomfortable levels. Another hour of this and she might just be tempted to prove them all right and hijack the damn ship.

YOU WILL KILL DARTH VADER.

Her breathing intensified and her heartbeat fluttered. She tried hard to maintain her military-precision step and keep her attention level even as the words echoed in her mind. She glanced at Skywalker. If he asked her was she OK…she wouldn't be responsible for her actions.

"Where are you from?"

She blinked. "What?"

"Just wondering what planet you're from," he clarified. "I heard somewhere it's called _smalltalk_. Thought I'd give it a try." He kept his eyes straight ahead.

She bit her cheek and scowled, wanting to tell him where to put his questions, but the reflexive flare of anger died a little. She found herself thinking of Yoda, that tiny green presence she'd been so quick to dismiss in comparison with her Master. The same presence who had guided her through the darkest time her soul had ever experienced.

"I don't know," she finally admitted.

He absorbed this in silence. "My uncle told me I was born on Tatooine," he said, conversationally, though somehow she sensed that this was not something he'd spoken of to anyone.

"You don't believe him?"

"No."

"So why not go ask him?"

She felt the flicker in his Force sense, the ripple of sadness, and for a brief instant the image of fire and bones flashed through her mind. Site Zero's powering up was amplifying her once-dormant Force powers. It was useful for the pain meditation, but she found herself unprepared for feeling someone else's emotions. Especially when she had worked so hard to repress her own…

"He's dead. The Empire murdered him looking for me."

"The Alliance have done their fair share of killing in the pursuit of freedom," she shot back, without even really knowing why.

"You really won't be happy until I bite on one of those barbs, will you?"

Her mouth shut neatly on her reply, mainly because she knew as well as he did that he was entirely correct, blast him.

"What about your parents?" she said instead, as much to change the subject as out of any sense of half-hearted curiosity.

"My uncle would never speak of my mother," he replied quietly. "Only that she died shortly after I was born. My aunt…" he trailed off for a moment, gathering himself a little, "…my aunt told me once that she wasn't from Tatooine; she was from a planet far distant. She said she was beautiful, almost like a princess. My uncle gave her a look and she stopped talking. I never got anything else out of her."

_Your uncle sounds like a control freak_, she wanted to say, but kept silent. Like those who bottled up their pasts often did, once Skywalker had opened the floodgates more and more was spilling forth. Fine. She could feign interest with the best of them – she had been to enough Imperial functions to have become an expert by now.

"Vader killed my father."

Abruptly there was no need to feign anything.

YOU WILL KILL DARTH VADER.

Luke must have sensed the command this time. "Are you-?"

"Yes!" she snapped back, in a harsher tone than was really warranted. Her anger was directed more at herself – dammit, she had to regain some measure of control and quickly. Had the Emperor's withdrawal from her really affected her so deeply?

She'd always been able to sense him, squatting somewhere in the back of her mind, a touchstone of power should she ever need to draw upon it. At times she had done so; but Mara disliked reliance on anything or anyone save herself, and each time his strength had assisted her she had forsworn with all of her will not to have to resort to doing so again.

What was the point, after all, of being the sole person trusted with the responsibility of being Emperor's Hand if you could not even trust yourself to see through the challenges of the role?

All of this she had told herself, and been content with…and yet since Yoda had instructed her on how to remove…no, how to _rip_ him from her mind, she had felt a loneliness the like of which she had not encountered, or ever expected to encounter.

Luke was still staring her way. She steadied herself, shot him the best sharp frown she could muster and brought matters back to the issue at hand. "Vader?"

He nodded. "My father was a Jedi Knight. Vader betrayed him and murdered him."

She smiled grimly. "Vader makes a habit of that."

"He's involved with the Empire's civil war, isn't he?"

She was impressed, despite herself. "Yes. He's turned against the Emperor," she said, feeling guilty for revealing the fact and then chastising herself for such silliness. It hardly mattered what she confessed at this stage.

Luke took a breath; she sensed his nervousness at the question he was about a frame a fraction before it came. "He's gone from you. You can't hear him anymore."

She didn't answer.

"It must be…strange," he settled for the word awkwardly.

Something within snapped. She stopped, turned to him, her face flushing with blood and anger and frustration, hands clenched to fists so tight her fingernails were close to drawing blood from her palms.

"_Strange_?" she choked. "Being his Hand…it was my _life_, Skywalker. My entire _life_, for as long back as matters worth a damn. I had privilege. I had a place. I commanded respect from the highest ranking members of the Imperial Navy. All of that is _gone_. And…" she fought back tears as the truth of her tortured emotions finally unravelled, even to herself, "…I don't have anyone to blame for it. Anyone but _him_. The man I worshipped used me as casually as he'd use an empty glass to hold his wine and then tried to smash me to pieces when I fought back."

"So help us," Luke countered.

"I'm not trying to stop you."

"You're not _trying_, period. We could use someone like you, Mara. No-one knows if Ja…if Kyp can really pull off this portal like he says he can. And even if he can, how in the worlds are we meant to change history back? How are we going to get onto that Death Star to find the proton inhibitor? I honestly don't know. But what I _do _know is that getting onto a Death Star would be a hell of a lot easier if we had help from an Emperor's Hand…"

She had avoided thinking about it, she realised, but his words hit home. Was she really prepared to turn her back on her previous existence to the extent of actively helping Skywalker and Solo undo the last five years of Imperial success?

Yes.

Her old life was over. Like it or not, this uncharted territory she was ploughing into now would form the basis of whatever life she would choose to make for herself. And blast it, she _would _choose. She would choose to help put the galaxy right again, to set her once-precious Emperor on a path that would eventually lead to his demise.

She knew it to be true. It was only fitting.

She would pay him back for all he had done to her.

---------------------------------------------------------

Toranne stumbled to her knees. "H-how…?" she managed to gasp.

"I call it Delta Source," Thrawn informed her conversationally. "My own innovation, as irony would have it. Since proven to be very useful for knowing worthwhile nuggets of Palace gossip – one item of which, as chance would have it, were the names and current assignments of all of the Emperor's Hands."

They had surrounded her at the first intersection leading away from the relay access room. A squadron of stormtroopers. She had opened fire and managed to take one down, but had been cut down by the overwhelming response. A blaster bolt had gone into her abdomen. It was fatal.

A roving walker droid projecting a holo had emerged from the ranks of the stormtroopers. Admiral Thrawn's face held not one single trace of pity as his holographic eyes watched the life ebb from her lithe body.

"Other Hands…" she gasped, coughing up blood, finding herself unable to even support herself on all fours, "there _are _no other Hands…! I am the Emperor's Hand! The only!"

"A useful lie. You may continue to believe it if you wish. My thanks for revealing the location of the overload circuit."

"You will all…die," she croaked, before beating everyone to it.

Technicians arrived on the scene, forcing their way through the stormtroopers. Their lead saluted the holo smartly. "You have work to do, Captain," Thrawn reminded him.

"Yes, sir. Chain reaction shouldn't be a problem to stop now we know the location of the starting point."

"See to it, Captain. I shall give serious consideration to demotion for you in the event your optimism is unfounded. Thrawn out."

Standing beside the Admiral on the bridge of the _Chimaera_, Pellaeon ran that last sentence through his mind again to check he had heard correctly as the holo of the speechless head technician winked out of existence.

"I have every confidence in him, Captain," as ever, Thrawn plucked the thoughts from his mind. "Merely a little humour on my part."

Pellaeon wisely kept his opinion to himself. "If you say so, Admiral."

"Battle report, Captain?"

Pellaeon returned his attention to the tactical readouts. Incredibly, given the situation less than an hour ago, hostilities between Imperial forces had ceased completely.

"Situation is secure, Admiral. Ships in holding patterns only. No combat."

"Excellent. Open a channel. Entire Imperial Network. Priority override code."

He was rapidly learning how to absorb the unexpected and simply roll with it. Pellaeon suspected that this was going to be a skill that would develop rapidly when working with Admiral Thrawn.

"Channel open."

A soft _beep _sounded throughout the bridge. The crew – Pellaeon included – fought the urge to hold their breath, knowing full well that anyone locked into the holonetwork had just witnessed their broadcast, their communication, overridden by a holo of Admiral Thrawn.

Right now, that meant thousands of inhabited worlds, untold trillions of sentient beings. The Empire could initiate this code, yes, but holonet users could terminate it at the flick of a switch and go back to their original communication – meaning that Thrawn figured he had something important enough to say that he was betting they wouldn't.

"My name is Thrawn," the man with the glittering eyes began, "and I assume you've heard of the Empire with whom I swear my allegiance. I assume over the last two decades you've grown to think you know what the Empire means. Oppression. Intimidation. Enslavement. The subjugation of so-called alien races in favour of humans."

Pellaeon burned a little at the words; burned at their harshness, but mostly at their accuracy.

"Well," Thrawn smiled, and indicated himself, "what you know is about to change. This galaxy needs to be strong. We face threats we can't even begin to imagine. And I will not permit us to be swept aside. It is clear from history, our recent history, that there are some who think that collective strength comes from being able to perform tricks with floating rocks and glorified vibroblades. That era is past."

He pressed a button. Pellaeon glanced down at the holonet feed. His blood chilled at what the display had changed to; a holo of Thrawn's Noghri commandos surrounding Vader and Palpatine. The Noghri demonstrated for the benefit of the holo that the former Emperor was being very firmly held in place. Palpatine, for his part, screamed soundless outrages at his captors. Pellaeon found himself wishing the Noghri would retaliate, but the inscrutable aliens kept their icy calmness.

The feed went back to Thrawn.

"In two hours from now," he said, history dripping from his words, "Senator Palpatine, self-proclaimed Emperor of the Galactic Empire, will be executed for his leading role in the series of atrocities perpetrated over the duration of his rule in the name of order. The execution will be carried on this frequency. It will mark the end of an era."

He took a breath. Pellaeon could sense that even Thrawn was aware of the implications of what he was saying.

"Palpatine's willing accomplice in his crimes, Darth Vader, will also be executed."

Pellaeon fingers curled around his console. Vader had been on their side in this conflict. Clearly Thrawn did not anticipate him fading quietly into the background now the battle was won. He could only imagine the Dark Lord's reaction to hearing the news he had been betrayed; those ysalamiri Thrawn placed such faith in had better not fail…

There was no doubting Thrawn possessed steel, but this was nothing short of breathtaking. Between them, Palpatine and Vader had cast a pall of fear over greater than half an entire galaxy. To order their execution-

"No longer will Jedi, or Sith, rule over those they deem inferior. We will have strength. We will have courage. But we will _not_ have barbarism. The New Empire will be born today, an Empire to last a thousand generations. I encourage you to gather and bear witness. Thrawn out."

The transmission cut. Silence reigned over the _Chimaera's _bridge in the aftermath of Thrawn's words. Pellaeon saw the Admiral's mouth open as if to speak, but at that moment the first clap sounded from the starboard crew pit, and quickly escalated into such applause that it was all Thrawn could do to sit there and wait for it to end.

---------------------------------------------------------

"ETA to Coruscant, Lieutenant?" Admiral Ackbar inquired.

"Two hours, Admiral."

Ackbar gave a Mon Calamari version of a mirthless smile. "Let's hope we're not late for the party," he said softly.


	40. The Truce At Coruscant

Galaxies Apart

Thirty Nine

System readout:

Life support systems at 67 percent of normal.

Projection:

At current rate of degradation, total life support failure in 320 minutes.

Reason for failure:

Unknown.

But Vader knew all too well.

The Death Star's detention cells were not renowned for their home comforts. A simple bench against one wall comprised the entire furniture inventory. That bench was currently occupied by the unconscious body of Ben Skywalker.

He discarded the system readouts from his optical sensors with a mental command, and called up thermal vision instead. The cold grey bulkhead of the detention cell door was replaced by blue, and outside, he could discern the yellows and reds of two stormtrooper guards, each with a protrusion growing from their backs generating its own unmistakable biological signature.

Further down the corridor outside, two more guards with identical heat signatures stood outside the adjoining cell.

"What…where are we?"

He turned, switching from thermal to regular vision instantly. Ben Skywalker sprang into focus, trying with some visible to sit upright. He rubbed his hands against his temple. Vader had long ago learned such gestures for him were fairly useless; not least because his headaches were continuous.

"In a detention cell," Vader informed the younger man. The black humour he found in his present situation would not be transmitted in that facsimile of a voice the suit produced. He doubted Ben would have been in any mood to hear it anyway. "Aboard _Admiral Thrawn's_ Death Star."

Ben slumped even more, if that were possible. "Weren't you on his side in this little rebellion?"

"He hates the Force," Vader replied tonelessly. It was a simple statement of fact; despite only having met Thrawn a handful of times in his life, it had not been especially difficult to glean this from the man's mind. "He despises the very concept of it. Jedi and Sith included."

"Palpatine?"

Vader gestured to the wall. "He neighbours us."

"Judging by the vibroblades plunging themselves into my forehead and spine, I'm guessing we don't have the Force?"

"The guards outside are carrying ysalamiri."

"Perfect," Ben sighed. He stood and stretched aching limbs. Lightsaber duels pushed the human body far beyond its normal physical limits. Only Force meditation rituals afterward enabled recovery, and without the Force, Ben's arms and legs were making him re-live every spectacular leap and jump.

"It may surprise you to learn that this didn't go exactly how I planned it."

"I had guessed."

"What are they going to do with us?" Ben asked. His voice was casual, but Vader had heard enough men beg for their lives to recognise a man masking his own fear.

"Execution."

He spoke the word and wondered at his own detachment from its implications. Yes, he was without the Force; but that alone did not explain his ambivalence at the prospect of his fate. He felt tired. Had felt tired for a long time now, without even realising it.

It was in a cell like this, exactly like this, that he had ordered and overseen Leia's interrogation. He could see in seven different visual spectra at the flick of a mental switch, but the one that kept flashing before his eyes wasn't contained in his schematics. It was a view of the past. And it hurt like nothing he'd ever known.

Ben's eyes widened. "Well, what are we going to do?" he said, forsaking his aching limbs and beginning to walk around the confined space of the cell, the nervous energy borne of fear powering him.

When the lava on Mustafar had claimed him, seared into his flesh and bone, the machinery the Emperor had bonded to him had stabilised his condition, kept him from slipping into a coma from which he never would have emerged. They had replaced his legs, his arm, given him mobility. More machine now than man.

But they were not enough. They had never been enough.

The injuries sustained on Mustafar were fatal. Would have been fatal to anyone bar those in tune with the Force and its healing properties. Since that day, Vader had kept himself alive through sheer force of will, his strength in the Force drawing the power he needed to make the charred husk he once called his human body perform the simple functions it needed to for his survival. He had not slept, in the true sense of the word, for twenty-four years.

Without the Force, his systems were slowly losing the battle to keep his body alive. If he wanted to live, Ben was right – he needed to do something, think of a plan to try and escape as soon as possible.

Vader sat on the bench.

"We wait," he said.

"Wait!" Ben exploded. "Wait for what? If we don't do something, who do you think is gonna come to our rescue?"

---------------------------------------------------------

"Dropping to sublight," the helmsman announced.

The _Alderaan _and its Ssi-Ruuk vanguard re-entered the realms of the pedestrian universe. Proximity alarms began blaring. They had dropped right in front of the Imperial Fleet.

"All fighters: launch," Ackbar ordered. "Go after the shield generators on those Star Destroyers."

Madine watched squadron after squadron streak away from the _Alderaan_'s massive bulk. Antilles and his wingmates would be amongst them, he knew. He wished them well.

"Chamber Master?" Ackbar thundered. He had not recovered from the disappointment of Endor as yet.

"Charging, Admiral," the Chamber Master assured him. "The pre-ignition warm-up in hyperspace worked. Less than two minutes until we can fire."

The Imperial's Death Star loomed large in the viewscreen. There was no way the old boat could match that charging time, Madine knew, especially not from a cold start. Things were proceeding according to plan. In fact-

"Why aren't they firing?" he murmured.

"Admiral Ackbar?" the comms officer said, his voice betraying his amazment. "Uh…you're being hailed, sir. By Admiral Thrawn."

"_Hailed_?" Ackbar repeated. Hailing the enemy commander to officially request their surrender was commonplace. Hailing them when you've just been caught cold in an ambush and should be scrambling your Fleet to avoid complete destruction was rather less common. If Sluis Van had hammered one lesson home, however, it was that Thrawn could not be underestimated.

"Hailed," the comms officer echoed. "He…wishes to open negotations. He requests that you power down the _Alderaan_'s superlaser and call off the Ssi-ruuk attack."

"Does he, now?" Ackbar's gravelly voice dripped with sardonic amusement. "And does he supply any particular reason why we should do this?"

"…he, uh…" the comms officer's voice had grown quiet, reflective, "…he points out that destroying something the mass of the Death Star in high orbit over Coruscant will almost certainly kill upwards of a hundred billion surface inhabitants."

A ripple of silence spread out over the bridge. Madine could see the Ssi-ruuk advance ships reaching the first of their Imperial targets. They began to take apart the Empire's forces. And still, damn them, they didn't fire back.

What was going on? What the hell had happened here?

Ackbar paused for a long moment before sighing out a rasping breath. "Chamber Master, power down primary ignition. _But-_" he stabbed a finger in the direction of the hapless man, "keep _all _sensor banks pointed at that Death Star. The instant it _smells_ like they're getting ready to fire, I want us primed and ready. Now…open a channel."

"Admiral Ackbar," Thrawn's voice sounded immediately. He was as icily calm as ever. "You seem to have caught us at an inopportune moment."

"My deepest sympathies," Ackbar growled. "I thought that was rather the point in war, Admiral."

"Normally I would agree," Thrawn's words coincided with the first of the Empire's Star Destroyers being blown apart by the Ssi-ruuk ships. And still no returning fire. "For a war to restore peace and justice to the galaxy, you seem to have chosen odd allies."

"We have common interests."

"Oh I doubt that, Admiral," Thrawn's voice was silky smooth now. "You yourself were once a slave, were you not?"

You could have heard a pin drop on the bridge. Madine saw Ackbar's hands tighten into fists. "You know the answer to that," the Mon Calamarian replied darkly.

"And yet you seek aid from those who enslave not only the body, but the very soul of those they conquer?"

"There is no proof-"

"Then allow me to provide it."

"We're receiving holo transmissions," the comms officer interrupted, glancing at Ackbar for direction. "Imperial frequency. Unencrypted."

"Display."

They watched as one. The holo feed was not of the highest quality, but it was clear enough. It had been captured during a Ssi-ruuk attack by an R2 unit; the data streams were instantly familiar to anyone who had ever owned an astromech. They watched as the lizard-like aliens swarmed over the small settlement. The droid was ignored – presumably it was a civilian model, without armaments.

The feed changed. They witnessed in silence the entechment of prisoner after prisoner, as they were strapped to the horrific machinery and their life force forcibly extracted, to act as a sentient pilot and energy source rolled into one for their snubfighters. They had all heard the rumours. But here, in front of their eyes, was the proof.

The holo ended.

"The Force forgive me," Ackbar croaked, his amphibious throat dry, his body shaking with shock and rage.

"Forgiveness is not my concern," Thrawn's voice crept into the stunned silence. Madine felt himself clinging to the certainty in that voice, because suddenly he wasn't certain of anything anymore. They had been so desperate to overthrow the Empire…but at what cost? At the cost of alliances with monsters like the Ssi-ruuk? "My Fleet, however, is."

That must have been the signal. The Imperial fleet burst open, capital ships and snubfighters erupting into action against their Ssi-ruuk opponents. Madine braced himself for the assault, but nothing came. They remained ignored.

"We have much to discuss, Admiral," Thrawn said softly. "But now is not the time. Now, I propose to you that we combine our forces to rid the galaxy of the Ssi-ruuk abomination."

"A truce?"

"A truce," Thrawn confirmed. "Now if you'll excuse me, Admiral, I have a battle to run. Your next actions will determine much. Make your choice wisely, for the sake of us all."

The transmission ended. No-one spoke. They watched the silent, balletic rage of battle wheel and turn across the Coruscant system, as the Empire and the Ssi-ruuk fleets engaged each other. Death Star aside, the two forces were evenly matched. Simply waiting this one out would put the Alliance in an unrivalled position to pick the bones of the winner.

But nothing was simple any more, was it?

"Hail received from the Ssi-ruuk flagship," the comms officer said, numbly. "They want to know what's holding us back from joining the battle."

"Our snubfighters are approaching the battle zone, Admiral," Madine reported. "What orders should I give them?"

Ackbar snapped into life. "Order them to stand down previous targets. Repeat, stand down Imperial targets. Do not fire on the Empire. Go for the Ssi-ruuk ships."

Just like that, the rest of the bridge crew awakened from their own mini-slumber. Backs straightened. Hearts pounded. Battle rituals were begun. The targets had changed. The sense of purpose was no lessened for it.

Madine nodded. "With pleasure, sir."

"Chamber Master?"

"Yes, Admiral?"

"Fire her up. 20 power beams. I want those Ssi-ruuk cruisers targeted. And…" Ackbar paused, "…keep an eye on the Imperials."

Madine grinned. It was comforting even in these head-spinning times of shades of gray to know that some things never changed.

---------------------------------------------------------

"They want us to _what_?"

"You heard, Wedge," Madine's voice came back loud and clear and, if Wedge wasn't imagining things, thirsty for blood, "we're gunning for the Ssi-ruuk."

In less than fifteen seconds they'd be broadside to a cluster of Star Destroyers. A well-constructed strafing run would have caused immense damage to the Imps left flank. His fingers itched to do exactly that. And now he was being asked to hold fire? Open up without warning on their allies? Sure they weren't exactly to his taste, but what the hell had changed…?

His Squadron were keyed into the transmission. "This for real, Commander?" Jansen's sceptical tones echoed his own thoughts. "Our source OK?"

Meaning Madine. Crix wasn't blind to the implication. "I haven't switched sides," the former Imperial commando said urgently. "We have proof of entechment technology. It's _real_. Ackbar's agreed to a truce so we can wipe these scaly bastards from the face of the galaxy. You're gonna have to trust me!"

The commencement point for the strafing run was imminent. Wedge saw his choice laid out before him. If he hadn't talked to Madine a few days ago man to man, hadn't had the chance to look into his eyes and see the kind of man that could rise so high within the Empire before his crisis of conscience, he might have considered abandoning the order and following Jansen's unspoken suggestion.

But he trusted his instincts. And that meant he trusted Madine.

"Break off the approach," he told his Squadron. "Same plan, different targets. Pick a big one. Don't die."

The Rogues scattered like the peerless pilots they were. He and his nearest three wingmates made straight for a nearby large Ssi-ruuk cruiser and the sweet spot it held on its dorsal side; a semicircular outcropping that housed the shield generating bussard collectors.

Ssi-ruuk snubfighters began to spew forth from the hangar bays of their mother ships. He'd fought alongside them on a few occasions now. The hierarchy claimed they told their pilots to maintain total radio silence. _Or maybe, just maybe, there are no pilots to make any transmissions_, he thought darkly.

One such ship landed square in his sights. He had the shot. If the rumours really were true, could what he was about to do be considered an act of mercy?

He squeezed the trigger. The snubfighter flared and was gone, and just like that, the eerily inert battlefield around him descended into a far more familiar landscape of laserfire, explosions and death.

, he thought, the image of Winter flashing through his mind before he allowed his reflexes to take over completely. 

The truce at Coruscant had begun.


	41. The Truce Ends

Galaxies Apart

Forty

The Alliance knew him as Bluescale. His own people called him Fleetlord Sh'tk'ith, in the Ssi-ruuvi language of clicks and whistles that outsiders – humans in particular – found so impenetrable.

Humans. He felt revulsion at the very thought of them. A disgusting, fragile race of beings; it remained to the Ssi-ruuk an unfathomable mystery how they had managed to seed themselves throughout this galaxy with such lamentable success. And yet, ironically, of all of the life energies the entechment process had been tested on, it was humans who lasted longest.

The planet below held more humans than the Ssi-ruuk could ever need. Trillions of them. An instant, endless source of energy and power for his entire civilisation. He felt his scent tongues extend from his nostrils of their own accord, as if they could taste the potential on the air for that kind of resource.

It had been so easy to fool the Alliance into believing that entechment was an Imperial myth. Reduced to a few pathetic Cruisers and tiny cells on unimportant worlds, the Alliance had practically tumbled with their enthusiasm for an ally with the military strength of the Ssi-ruuk. For their part, Sh'tk'ith's superiors had not been slow in recognising the benefits to having a legitimate front for their invasion force. And when the Empire had been defeated, the Alliance weaklings could be quietly disposed of, and their marvellous Death Star transferred to a race with the convictions to use it.

It had been so easy. Until now.

"Death Star charging its main weapon!" Bluescale's tactical officer shouted. His bridge was in chaos. The Alliance snubfighters had scattered amongst his capital ships and were proving ruthlessly efficient at disabling shield generators, allowing the main guns on the Empire's Star Destroyers to blow them apart, piece by piece.

"Which one?" he demanded.

His tactical officer turned, looked him in the eyes. Normally this would be an unthinkable breach of protocol, since he belonged to a lower caste of Ssi-ruuvi society; clearly at this point the tactical officer didn't much care.

"Both of them."

He had met with the vile alien who called himself Ackbar personally, had heard Ackbar's voice tremble with hatred when he talked of the Empire and its treatment of free races. All lies, it seemed. Now both were working together, against the Ssi-ruuk Imperium. What were the odds on such a happening?

He could only watch as the superlaser from the Alliance's Death Star lanced out. It wasn't a full strength planet-killing beam, that much was clear. Nonetheless, it had more than enough lethal energy to scythe through one of the large Ssi-ruuvi cruisers, shields and all, like it didn't exist. A few seconds later, apart from a rapidly expanding debris field, it really didn't.

Before he could begin to gather his thoughts, another cruiser went up in flames. The Empire's Death Star had just proved that, dwarfed though it was by the Alliance's version, it still packed a devastating punch.

They had a large fleet. But against the power of those Death Stars, no fleet could prevail. There was only one option left open to him.

"Send the order to all ships," he hissed, every word he spoke burning in his throat, "make the jump to hyperspace. We are retreating."

His crew obeyed, and he felt the ship begin to come about as it sought a reliable hyperspace escape vector. He had time to look out of the viewscreen, to see both Death Stars. Someday, he promised himself, the Ssi-ruuk would return to revenge themselves on the humans and their allies for this defeat and the betrayal that had caused it.

Sooner than they dreamed possible.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Looks like they're leaving."

Wedge glanced at his instruments. Rogue Three was right. "Get clear," he instructed his Squadron, though he knew they'd already be giving the Ssi-ruuk a wide berth. Getting caught in a ship's hyperspace slipstream was one of the surer methods of suicide, not to mention one of the messiest.

He watched as first one, then several, then all of the Ssi-ruuk ships vanished, leaving behind only the crippled and dead hulks of the cruisers taken apart by the Star Destroyers; those hit by the Death Stars, he noted with a chill down his spine, hadn't left behind any debris larger than an engine manifold.

Laserfire streaked across his ventral shields. He let loose a stream of curses, jinking his ship to the left. The Imperials – had they broken the truce already?

"It's a Ssi-ruuk snubfighter," Jansen broke into his thoughts and dismissed his initial suspicions with one statement. "A few of them have been left behind. They don't seem to be surrendering."

"I got it, Rogue Leader," Rogue Seven, and was as good as his word; Wedge's pursuer was so much space dust a few moments later.

"Thanks, Dack."

"No problem," Dack's easygoing voice replied. "So, anyone have the faintest idea what do we do now?"

"First off, we get the hell clear of these Star Destroyers," Wedge replied instantly, turning his X-Wing back toward the reassuring bulk of the _Alderaan_.

"Sounds good to me," Jansen replied. His sentiments were echoed by the rest of Rogue Squadron. Their X-Wings turned to follow Wedge's flight path. They hadn't lost a single ship during the Ssi-ruuk engagement, Wedge noted with equal measures of pride and relief.

His external comm channel buzzed for attention. "Rogue Leader, this is Base One," Crix Madine's voice sounded. Wedge grinned. He had been right about Madine's trustworthiness.

"Copy, Base One. Scratch some soul-suckers off your radar."

"We saw that. Nice work," Madine was brisk and Wedge sensed something was up. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, as they always did when something unexpected or dangerous reared its head.

He didn't have to wait long. "We have a new mission for you."

"Rogues are ready and waiting, Base One."

"You're to escort Admiral Ackbar and a security detail in his personal shuttle."

Wedge asked the question he already knew the answer to. "Destination?"

"The Imperial Death Star."

Low whistles and murmuring sounded in Wedge's ear. The rest of Rogue Squadron had not been able to contain their reaction to that mission. He was finding it hard to keep a lid on his own emotions, come to that. The last time he'd approached that monster, it had been a last-ditch attempt to save the Rebel Alliance; an attempt that had been a spectacular failure, had cost more than a few of his close friends their lives, not to mention cost the existence of Yavin IV itself.

"Thrawn wants to hold talks with us," Madine's voice growled. Wedge had the distinct impression the man was talking softly so as to avoid being overheard by the rest of the _Alderaan_'s bridge crew, most likely Ackbar in particular. "Personally I think it's a trap, but he's convinced Ackbar that if massive bloodshed and loss of life is to be avoided, this is the only way."

"Hold up – _Thrawn_ wants to hold talks?" Wedge repeated. "I thought rumour had it Thrawn was busted down in rank for losing the _Alderaan _to us at Sluis Van?"

"Trust me when I tell you, if even half of what Thrawn's claiming has happened is true, you're not gonna believe it."

They were less than twenty thousand miles from the _Alderaan _now. Wedge saw a faint speck against that massive bulk pull away from the equatorial ring of hangar bays. Ackbar's shuttle.

"Rogue Leader," a new voice broke in, "this is Captain York aboard shuttle _Polerian_. Your squadron to flank and provide cover for us and the Admiral from here to the Death Star…_their_ Death Star. Do you copy?"

"Good luck, guys. Stay alert," Madine whispered, and cut transmission.

"We copy, _Polerian_," Wedge replied, taking point ahead of the shuttle as the rest of Rogue Squadron flanked the craft on all sides. He and his pilots would do their job, that much he knew. What use they would be if the Imperials – if Thrawn – decided to go back on his word…that, he was less sure of.

---------------------------------------------------------

Five years previously, he had stood in this very room and choked an insolent Imperial officer to within a gasp of his life for daring to question his devotion to the Force. He had stopped at Tarkin's request, but both he and Tarkin knew full well that had Vader wished to snap the man's neck, bar being rather put out at the loss of one of his officers, there wouldn't have been a thing in hell Tarkin could have done about it.

With his black uniform and his swirling cape, Vader didn't just _look _like a storybook version of the personification of Death itself; for almost twenty years within the Imperial Navy, he had _been _Death. He had silenced rooms upon entry. He had killed men for failures not of their own making, left them gibbering wrecks with the merest hint of a threat. The fear he inspired in those around him had been like a warming flame to him, a constant source of nourishment for the Dark Side energies that ebbed and flowed through every fibre of his being.

Even if the Force had been with him at this present moment, Vader suspected he would find little of that former fear in those around him. In binders, being led like a captive animal through the corridors of the Death Star, he had come to the conclusion that Thrawn had deliberately arranged his transit route to take him past as many public places as possible. Stunned silence had surrounded them in such places, for the most part. Vader knew word would spread irrevocably throughout the Empire – Vader had been broken by Thrawn.

His one crumb of comfort was that, if he felt shame and humiliation that it had come to this, he could not even _begin_ to imagine what it felt like for his former master, the much-vaunted Darth Sidious himself.

The Emperor (if even, indeed, he still was) had given up ranting and raving some time ago. He had allowed his hands to be placed in binders and had walked alongside Vader and Ben to this conference room, not saying a word.

Upon crossing one extremely public plaza, with upwards of three thousand silent crewmembers present, Vader had been astonished when first sporadic, then muted, then thunderous applause had snowballed until every stormtrooper, every technician was cheering the sight of their former undisputed leader being led in chains to his execution.

He had looked at Palpatine, curious to see his reaction, half-expecting the man to make some attempt to break his binders and leap for the ysalamiri-bearing guards flanking them to each side, a last desperate attempt to regain the Force and deliver merciless vengeance to the Empire's finest who dared to cheer that he had been overthrown.

But Palpatine had continued to walk, his expression neutral. Most would have genuinely believed that he was unaffected by what was going on around him. Vader had spent the best part of 20 years in this man's servitude, however, and he knew better. He had allowed himself the luxury of a flash of fear at the thought of Palpatine ever being out of range of ysalamiri again. The result, he was sure, would make Alderaan's demise look like a charity fundraiser.

In fact the only futile attempts at escape had come from their young companion in crime, Ben Skywalker. Vader ached slightly to see him in such denial that this fate could have befallen him. Three times on the march here he had tried valiantly to break free, to run clear or lash out at his guards. It was hopeless. Thrawn had proven again and again that he was not a moron. Ten of the finest stormtroopers the Empire possessed had strode alongside them in tight formation, each equipped with a ysalamiri backpack and nutrient branch. Flanking _them _was a backup squad outfitted with the same. The chances of finding a way out of the Force-free bubble the animals projected was zero.

So here they stood. The Empire's past and its would-be future, in chains. The man who fancied himself to represent its present entered the conference room by the east door, the faithful Captain Pellaeon and the ever-vigilant Rukh a half-step behind on each side. Thrawn's glittering crimson eyes settled on each of the three prisoners in turn.

They lingered longest on Palpatine, who returned the stare silently but with such intensity that Vader was amazed the air in the room failed to shimmer in the heat.

"Slight change in plans, gentlemen," Thrawn announced calmly, taking the seat at the head of the table Tarkin would normally have occupied. "Your executions have been postponed. We have visitors to greet, and I will find your presence here as prisoners an excellent demonstration of our…new philosophies."

Palpatine's silence remained complete. Vader found himself mildly curious, but still afflicted by the apathy that had been creeping over him these past few days. His system readouts had told him only a few minutes ago that he had 200 minutes of life left in him. So it was left to Ben to reply.

"Visitors?"

"The Rebel Alliance."

"You've captured some of their leaders."

"No. We're negotiating with them."

"_Negotiating_?" Ben repeated, dumbfounded. "With the _Alliance_? For their surrender, I assume?"

Thrawn smiled mirthlessly. "Surrender? With a Death Star easily capable of outmatching this one at their disposal? Hardly likely. At any rate not unless there was, oh I don't know, hidden explosives dotted all over the ship as a failsafe…?"

The question was directed at Palpatine. He made no reply.

Thrawn shrugged. "Little matter. I am well aware nothing of the sort exists. And for that reason alone, it is prudent to negotiate. Not least because with the Death Star at their disposal, the Alliance could remove a fatally high percentage of our Fleet in an extremely short time, and reasonably expect to take Coruscant once support for their movement grows."

"Where are the others?" Ben asked.

"Others?"

"The other high-ranking Imperials. Judging by your insignia, you're an Admiral. Shouldn't a Grand Moff or Grand Admiral be conducting these negotiations?"

Thrawn nodded magnanimously. "After discussions with my peers in the Imperial Navy, I am pleased to say I have assumed overall command of the Empire."

Vader couldn't help himself. Tarkin had been the favourite, obviously, and with his death naturally there would have been a rush to fill the power vacuum, but for Thrawn to have won that battle, and so quickly? It beggared belief.

"You?" he said. "Petarki…Piett…Lursa…Zsinj…Isard…the rest, they all agreed to elect a _non-human_ as Emperor?"

"Firstly," Thrawn held up a finger to correct him, "I am not, nor shall I ever be, _Emperor_. The term will shortly be…obsolete," he settled for, unable to resist sending a challenging look in Palpatine's direction, "and secondly…" his eyes glittered, "…I do not recall saying that the decision was arrived at through election. Other methods," and here he gave a meaningful look towards the compact, lethal frame of Rukh standing behind him, "proved more appropriate to the circumstances."

A memory flashed through Vader's mind; after the battle of Endor, where Thrawn's performance had almost proven decisive and cemented his position as Tarkin's favourite new pet, Thrawn had loudly trumpeted the benefits of a Noghri bodyguard or two to the Navy's hierarchy…

Vader wondered at what moment Thrawn had activated those Noghri. When the Coruscant shield had been breached and victory had been within reach? Had that been the signal for his pet assassins to strike and make their master the heir apparent?

"You're a fool, Thrawn."

Palpatine had broken his silence. The words had been softly spoken, but no less filled with hatred for that. Thrawn raised an eyebrow and leaned back in his seat, for all the world a man enjoying a carefree moment of contemplative relaxation.

"I've been called a fool many times," he replied. "But never by a man who thought it amusing to attempt destroy my career and my life less than four days ago, and who now finds himself at my mercy and his Empire at my feet. Forgive me, my _Lord_, if I don't seem overly concerned by your assessment. Your time has passed. You, Vader, and the elusive Luke Skywalker," he inclined his head to Ben, who said nothing, "you are remnants of an archaic past. A bygone age where arbitrary distribution of microparticles within a body was somehow thought to bestow wisdom to govern. Your religion has been the cause of too much woe to this galaxy. No longer."

Palpatine merely laughed in response. Disconnected from the Force though he was, Ben Skywalker suddenly felt a strong sense of _déjà vu _at the sound of that laugh. The last time he'd heard it was in the Throne Room, when Palpatine had been so confident of his plan to wipe the Death Star from the galaxy and ravage the surface of Coruscant. When he'd been certain he had one last, decisive ace up his sleeve.

This laugh was of the same ilk.

Thrawn looked about to respond when the table communicator buzzed for attention. "Admiral Thrawn," the adjutant's voice came through, "they're here."

"Show them in," Thrawn replied. He shot a meaningful glance at Palpatine as he did, one that clearly said _this isn't over yet_.

The doors slid open, and those inside beheld the improbable sight of Admiral Ackbar, greatest military mind of the Rebel Alliance, entering the heart of enemy territory not as a slave or a prisoner, but an equal – and equality in this case apparently encompassed the right for him to bring along a sizeable security detail. Twelve Alliance troopers, clad in the trademark semi-camouflage colours stormtroopers were so fond of sneering at. All armed to the teeth.

_It's going to get crowded in here_, Vader observed.

Thrawn rose from his seat, all professionalism. He walked to Admiral Ackbar directly and extended his hand. Ackbar looked at it as if it were a grenade.

"Welcome aboard, Admiral."

The hand hovered in mid-air a moment longer. Ackbar seemed to be weighing up the situation; if what Vader had heard of the man's ponderous character was accurate, that process could take some considerable time.

Ackbar's eyes settled on the sight of Palpatine and Vader, under guard and restrained. His large aquatic eyes seemed to bulge to even greater proportions. An instant later, he had returned Thrawn's handshake; it was brief and not remotely friendly, but it was returned.

The guards meanwhile had fanned out, obviously to prearranged specifications. Two stood alongside Ackbar at all times, two by the door they had entered through; the remaining eight spread themselves throughout the room, standing as conspicuously as possible beside their Imperial counterparts. Some stared with unabashed curiosity at the bulging backpacks select stormtroopers sported.

Ackbar sat down, a few seats down from his opposite number at the negotiating table. "I'm here," he stated. "Against the recommendation of my leaders, and most of my peers, I'm here. You must realise how hollow promises from the Empire sound, Admiral."

"Yet you're here," Thrawn observed mildly.

Ackbar gestured to the illustrious prisoners. "I'm willing to accept that things do seem to be undergoing a process of change," he said dryly.

"The entire galaxy is undergoing change, Admiral," Thrawn said eagerly. "Thanks to your…opportunistic manoeuvres at Sluis Van, the Alliance finds itself in a position of strength. Once, this would have led to an inevitable confrontation between us; one that would have cost millions, perhaps billions of lives. Death Stars are not noted for precision strikes."

"Once," Ackbar echoed. "You're suggesting we have another option?"

"You broke from the Empire for reasons I can understand. But I ask you, if the Empire was willing to change; a change process you yourself have seen the beginning of…what reason is there for rebellion? This war can end, Admiral, without one more innocent life extinguished needlessly."

"What exactly are you proposing?"

"That we extend the truce," Thrawn said. "We fought together to rid ourselves of the Ssi-ruuk. Let us fight together to rid ourselves of the _need _to fight. The _Alderaan _stays in orbit. We do likewise. We begin the process of re-integration. Your leaders granted amnesty to emerge from hiding and reassume positions of power in a reformed government."

"Are you insane?" Ben spat. "You would _purposefully _bring back the weakness of the Old Republic?"

Ackbar looked at him again. Despite their large eyes, Mon Calamari were not renowned for their above-water vision; as instantly recognisable as his fellow prisoners were, clearly Ackbar needed to look again to identify the third.

"Luke?" he said, his voice tinged with sadness. "Luke, what are you doing here?"

That was when Palpatine began to laugh once again. It built slowly, from a chuckle to a hearty roar of amusement, each syllable dripping with malice. Some men would have snapped in the face of it and ordered him silenced. Thrawn merely waited for the laughter to abate.

"Quite finished?"

"You're a fool," Palpatine smiled.

"So you've mentioned."

"You're so proud of this brave new galaxy you're creating!" the Emperor cackled. "So pleased at your own cleverness! It's almost tragic that you have no idea…"

Thrawn was tiring of this game. "No idea of what?"

"Of how, in an instant, every single thing you've done here is going to vanish. All of the little plans and schemes you've dreamt up – _soof _– gone," he went on, expanding his fist to indicate nothingness, "and there's not a single thing you can do about it."

Ben's eyes widened. So this was Palpatine's last ace. And it was more devastating than any amount of boobytrapped Death Stars…

"Don't waste my time," Thrawn sighed. "You're powerless, your Highness. If you could circumvent the ysalamiri, you'd have done so long ago."

Palpatine gave another throaty chuckle at this, his expression almost one of pity. Ben could see every last trace of bemusement vanish from Thrawn's face and be replaced with pronounced irritation. Palpatine was playing a dangerous game. As usual, he was playing it expertly.

"I do not refer to me," he said mockingly. "Half a galaxy away, a pitiful little band of do-gooders are even now working to undo all your supposed accomplishments – and when they succeed, it'll be as if none of this ever was."

"How?" Thrawn demanded.

"Time travel."

"Impossible."

"As you wish," Palpatine shrugged. "In a few hours, it will be immaterial. They will succeed in going back through time, and the galaxy will cease to be as it now is. All of your work will be for nothing," he concluded, speaking to Ben.

All eyes turned to him.

"Your work?"

Ben didn't know whether to play dumb or start talking. The fairly reasonable point occurred to him, though, that if he played dumb on this, he was scheduled to be executed sometime in the next few hours. Alternative ways to spend the rest of his day seemed quite attractive in comparison.

And so he began talking. He told them everything about his trip back through time using the mysterious artefact known only as Site Zero to change history at Yavin IV. He told them the history of the galaxy that should have been, including the destruction of the second Death Star at Endor along with Vader, Palpatine and the _Executor _(Thrawn winced at the latter) the subsequent establishment of the New Republic under Mon Mothma, Leia Organa Solo and Admiral Ackbar and, some years later, the resurgence of the Empire under Thrawn himself until…

"…until your assassination," he finished, not wanting to specify the details. Rukh's impassive gaze was like a beacon of hostile intent.

"A fabulous story," Thrawn said. "I am amazed at the speed with which you were able to concoct it. Perhaps the walls between detention cells are not as soundproof as I was assured."

Ben returned Thrawn's scepticism with a shrug. "Believe what you want," he said casually, "but if what I'm saying is a lie, then how do you explain me? I am not Luke Skywalker. I am his clone. Created on Wayland by Joruus C'boath-" he saw Thrawn's reaction to that name, "five years from now."

"Examine his DNA," Palpatine crowed triumphantly. "My cloning facilities implant a marker deep within each clone's DNA giving the date of creation. You'll see."

In short order a medical scanner was produced. All interested parties seemed frozen to their seats whilst a medic ran it over Ben's body. Eventually, he nodded. "He's a clone alright. Except this scanner must be busted…it's giving the date of creation wrong."

"Five years from now?"

The medic grinned nervously at Thrawn. "Damndest thing, huh? I'll get another-"

"No need. How easy would that marker be to forge?"

The medic whistled. "I suppose you _could _do it," he said slowly, "but you'd need to do it right at the initial growth stage. And…" he ran the scanner over Ben once again, "…there's something else that's odd here. From what my scanner is telling me, this clone was grown in a fraction of the normal time. And yet he seems fine. That's impossible."

"It's not impossible," Ben said. "Quickly-grown clones develop a morphic Force resonance with the original person that drives them insane," he stared at Thrawn, "except someone figured – _figures _– a way around that."

"My ysalamiri," Thrawn breathed, the implications of what he was witnessing sinking in. His blue skin seemed to lighten a shade. "It's all true."

"Luke Skywalker and his friends will soon render your victories meaningless," Palpatine gloated.

"Where?" Thrawn demanded. "Where is this Site Zero?"

"I can take you there," Palpatine replied.

"So can I," Ben spoke up.

The two men glared at one another with mutual loathing. This was it, Ben realised. Palpatine had played his final card – somehow he knew the location of Site Zero, and had gambled everything on using it as a bargaining chip. The only question would be which of them convinced Thrawn to make a deal-

"No-one is going anywhere."

Even Thrawn seemed taken aback. Ponderous Admiral Ackbar, the old man of the Rebellion, had produced a blaster from somewhere within his Admiral's uniform. "If this is true," he said, "then the defeats for the Alliance for the last five years can be reversed in an instant. Do you _really_ think I'd allow that chance to slip away?"

His Alliance guards produced their sidearms in one smooth motion. Ragtag uniforms or not, they were a well-trained outfit. Suddenly the integration of stormtrooper and Alliance guard splintered as the stormtroopers separated themselves, drawing their own blaster rifles in readiness.

Thrawn's eyes narrowed. "Stand aside, Admiral. The situation has changed."

"The entire galaxy is undergoing change, _Admiral_," Ackbar shot back, echoing Thrawn's grand proclamations from earlier on in proceedings. "Seems to me it's about to change back to its rightful path."

No-one moved. No-one breathed. Blasters hovered in midair, poised and ready.

"It was nice…while it lasted," Thrawn said, a tinge of sadness evident in his voice.

Ben felt the electric charge in the air, an instinct he'd developed completely separately from his Jedi training. He managed to wrest himself free of the stormtrooper holding him in place and throw himself to the deck just as the conference room above him erupted in laserfire.

The truce at Coruscant was well and truly over.


	42. Death of a Sith Lord

Galaxies Apart

Forty One

They said that for a soldier, war was nine-tenths waiting around bored, and one-tenth sheer terror. Crix Madine had seen enough action in his career to know that to be fairly accurate. He had never expected to be waiting around on the bridge of the _Alderaan _while a sizeable portion of the Imperial Navy hung in space, so close he could practically read the ID numbers on their hulls if he so desired.

It was so damned _quiet_. Everyone was in a state of high alert, yes, but without new orders coming in nothing was changing. It was almost as if no-one dared speak, lest their voice break the soap bubble fragility of the reality they had somehow found themselves in. Peace talks? With the Empire?

And yet, why was it so odd? Capturing the _Alderaan _had been a massive victory, yes, but had the Alliance really expected every single ship in the Imperial Fleet to graciously swan into superlaser range in an orderly queue? Surely the more likely outcome were negotiations to avoid that happening-

"Hey," a hand dropped on his shoulder.

He glanced up, ashamed that his much-vaunted commando reflexes had apparently been on temporary leave. Identifying who it was reassured him somewhat.

"Hello Winter."

He and the former Alliance agent had once been on opposite sides of the covert fence; he'd attended many meetings where senior officials had all but torn their hair out over the identity of Targeter, the spy with the perfect memory. Since his defection he had made a point of sharing his experiences with her, to pool resources to better help the Alliance.

He knew that was only partially true, of course. Winter was, not to put too fine a point on it, a complete stunner. Had she been a galactic authority on the finer points of growing topacacia blooms he would, in all likeliness, still have found some excuse to get speaking to her when duty permitted.

"How's it looking?"

He repeated his earlier feelings to her, including his puzzlement at the unease with which he viewed the current initiative for peaceful negotiations. She grunted.

"It's because," she said quietly, not looking at him but rather out to space, "we haven't spilled enough blood yet."

He opened his mouth to contradict that rather unpleasant sentiment…and then closed it again. She was right. The Alliance had suffered greatly at the hands of the Empire. Yavin IV had been the pinnacle of that suffering, but it had not stopped there. Entire cells had been wiped out mercilessly. Alliance ships had been hunted relentlessly across space. Its leaders and founding members had found themselves with enormous bounties placed upon their heads of such value that every single unsavoury character with a starship probably had their picture fix-o-taped to the cockpit window by now.

They had hungered for revenge. And yet thus far all that bloodlust had been spent on was the Ssi-ruuk, not the Empire. It was a sobering thought; Madine knew all too well how comforting it was to consider oneself to have the moral high ground in war. It was why he'd switched sides, after all. But more and more he was being reminded that in the business of taking lives to promote political ideals, no matter how laudable those ideals were, the bottom line was the same: you were taking lives.

So apparently in addition to being a beauty and having an eidetic memory, Winter was also a pretty passable psychologist. Madine felt himself sink down a little further into his own personal awe-space of this woman.

"Are the Rogues still by the Death Star?"

He nodded. "They're to wait for Ackbar to emerge. And…I think the official line was to serve as a reminder of our presence."

She snorted, evidently nervous about something. "Some reminder. Twelve X-Wings against a Death Star? That must be causing the Imps no end of worry."

"X-Wings and Y-wings almost brought that old hulk down once before."

She glanced at him. "You've spoken to Wedge," she guessed, smiling slightly.

He knew that smile. With a sinking heart, her nervousness regarding Rogue Squadron's current whereabouts became depressingly explainable. "You know him?" he asked, for the look of the thing.

There was that smile again. He doubted she was even aware of it. "A little, yes."

He drummed his fingers on the command console and bit the inside of his cheek. Damning statistic though it was, despite its founder member being a woman, the Rebel Alliance's rather threadbare military seemed to suffer from a distinct lack of them. Particularly gorgeous ex-spies with whom he had plenty in common and whom he thought to be – until recently – available. Ludicrously, these seemed in _especially _short supply.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Mmf," he assented, still thoughtfully processing his cheek.

"Shouldn't you be sitting in the big chair?" she asked, jerking her head back and to the side to indicate Ackbar's command seat.

He winced. He'd been hoping no one would press him on that. "Aren't you the highest-ranking officer here, with the Admiral gone?"

"Technically…" he admitted, grimacing. "But…Winter, I'm the leader of a commando squad. It was nice for the Alliance to give me a high rank when I jumped ship, but my training is in staying undetected, in stealth and subtlety. Last time I looked, those weren't top of the list of desirable qualities for someone commanding a Death Star."

She said nothing, just kept looking at him. He'd been captured twice by the enemy back in his Imperial days and tortured for information. Absurdly, Winter's accusatory look was making him feel more uncomfortable.

"He'll be back soon," he said, more than a trifle defensively. "It's not like Thrawn took the trouble to invite him over there just to start a fight, is it?"

---------------------------------------------------------

The corpse of the stormtrooper hit the deck inches from where Ben lay. He had scrambled to the edge of the conference table as soon as he could. Fortunately, with typical Imperial grandiosity the Death Star had been outfitted with furnishings in keeping with its militaristic theme; he was crouching under what was surely one of the very few conference tables in the galaxy that was thoroughly blaster-proof.

The Alliance guards by the door had been amongst the swiftest to react. Realising they were potentially outnumbered by many hundreds of thousands to one, they had sealed the entrance doors to the lounge with well-placed shots, trapping everyone inside. Both sides had exchanged point-blank fire in the early stages of the skirmish; from his admittedly limited vantage point, Ben had been sure that at least a third of each side's number had been cut down in those chaotic early exchanges.

One of them had been his father.

He had dragged Vader's body in from the firing line. There was a smoking hole in the armour around the lower torso. That infamous breathing rhythm was falteringly weak and ponderous. Ben had shoved him forcefully as far underneath the table's overhang as he could manage. The Rebels occupied the opposite side. The conference room had afforded no other means of cover.

He could hear stormtrooper reinforcements outside trying to get through the sealed doors.

"Give it up, Admiral!" Thrawn, who had clearly survived, was calling from further down the Imperial side of the divide. "This is futile! Don't throw your life away!"

Ackbar made no reply. Ben had no idea if this was because he was a smoking corpse or because he had nothing to say.

"Ben…" Vader managed.

"Don't try to talk," Ben chided him. "Keep your strength. It'll be over soon and I'll get you to the medbay."

Vader was shaking his head, saying no. "Help me get…this mask off," he said.

Ben grabbed him by the loose ends of his cape and thrust his face close to that terrifying mask. "You listen to me," he hissed, "you're _not_ dying in the crossfire of some random firefight. So you lie there and shut up and wait for me to get help. Understand?"

The stormtrooper's body had fallen awkwardly. His blaster rifle had tumbled end-over-end and was now around five feet or so from where Ben crouched.

Something made him look to his left. He stared into yellow eyes and a face contorted in hatred and contempt.

And then, Palpatine made a dive for the blaster rifle.

Ben sprang into motion a quarter-second behind him. In that brief eye contact he had made, he had read Palpatine's intentions as clearly as if they both had still been connected to the Force. Both of them knew the location to Site Zero. Logic dictated Thrawn would need only one to guide him. Given the political value to be wrested from executing the Emperor, Thrawn would most likely seek to make a deal with Ben.

Unless, of course, Ben was already dead.

Palpatine reached the rifle first. He swung it around with a cry of triumph…but too late. Ben was already upon him, using the force of his dive to cannon into the older man, deflecting his aim hopelessly high and wide. Ben concentrated his efforts on getting Palpatine's hands off the trigger.

He half-expected the fight to be a formality, given the age difference, but it was far from that. Palpatine fought like an uncaged beast. There was no form to it, no structure; he pulled, he punched, kicked, bit, twisted with all of his might, knowing full well he was fighting for his very existence with every ounce of strength he could extract from himself.

Ben, however, had been trained in unarmed combat during his days at the Jedi Academy. After his initial shock at the ferocity of Palpatine's fightback, he allowed himself to take a breath even as they rolled across the killing floor, the blaster rifle sandwiched in their grip. The old man's lack of strength was his weakness, of course. Ben simply had to get a firm enough grip on-

- and with perfect train-of-thought-losing timing and perfect aim to match, Palpatine brought his knee _up_.

Ben made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. His previously iron grip around the blaster rifle relaxed by a substantial margin. He could only watch as Palpatine ripped the weapon from his hands, his teeth gritted with effort and his eyes afire with triumph, and turned the rifle's barrel until it was placed directly against Ben's forehead.

"Welcome to the future," Palpatine hissed, and pulled the trigger.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Use it…sir," the guardsman wheezed. His eyes closed and his head slumped forward. Warm blood, flowing freely from the stomach wound the guard had caught, coated the hand-held communications device he was trying to pass to Ackbar, who took it from fingers suddenly unresisting and lifeless.

"Ackbar to _Alderaan_," he barked into the device, as his surviving guards shoved him to cover. Blaster fire reverberated around him, incredibly loud in the confined conference room. Stormtroopers and Rebels were falling wherever he looked. Thrawn was screaming something about not throwing his life away.

No response came back. For a moment he feared the worst; that the Imperials outside the room had maintained enough presence of mind to realise what was happening and jam communications.

No. "_Alderaan _here," Madine's voice came back a heartbeat and an eternity later. Clearly the sounds of blaster fire were transmitting loudly down the open channel, because Madine's voice changed in pitch right after. "Admiral, what's happening?!"

"We're under attack," Ackbar stated the obvious. "Listen to me: you _must _stop the Death Star from leaving this system! If it escapes, you must follow – everything depends on it, do you under-"

Static. The Empire had caught up, it seemed.

With the sound of metal warping under the strain of being pounded by a heavy repeating blaster, the stormtrooper reinforcements broke through the conference room doors. Ackbar's surviving guards changed their targets and poured blaster fire through the opening, succeeding in driving back the initial charge.

He watched with detached fascination as a small white object came hurtling through the opening, rolling into the conference room before bouncing high onto the charred remains of the great table in the centre. It looked like-

"Sonic grenade!" someone shouted. Who, he never knew.

There was a noise-

He had, in his capacity as an Imperial slave, once attended a weapons demonstration with his master. He had learned quietly from the sidelines during all such events, picking up knowledge he swore he would use later against the Empire. That day he had seen the effect of sonic grenades on captive Wookiees; the high-intensity soundwaves overloaded their victims auditory systems, forcing the brain to shut down temporarily all senses in order to prevent permanent damage; the result was to introduce a complete imbalance in the equilibrium of those affected by the blast radius.

All of this he had learned. And so, when his vision blurred and shrank, his hearing muffled and he found he could do nothing save collapse to the ground, at one level he knew exactly what was happening to him.

White blurs appeared above him, red streaks emanating from them into the prone guards lying to his left and right. Had his sense of smell been working, the scent of charred flesh would have signalled the end of the valiant resistance of his men.

White blurs coalesced over him. He thought he heard, faintly, as if through the waters of the Mon Calamarian ocean he had not seen in far too long, someone shouting, a man. He sounded angry.

He'd seen so much anger in his life. Too much. It was to be his final thought.

Ackbar's world went red, and then black, and he saw and heard no more.

---------------------------------------------------------

"NO!" Thrawn thundered, too late. He actually managed to stand, bracing himself against the edge of the conference table. Ackbar was dead.

"No," Palpatine breathed. The sonic grenade had gone off just as he had pulled the trigger, the blast wave knocking him off his feet and sending the bolt harmlessly to the ceiling. Ben stood above him, swaying a little from the after-effects, but the rifle held securely in his hand.

---------------------------------------------------------

"No…" the word escaped Madine's lips even as he felt his heart sink and his stomach twist. For a second, a fatal second, he felt paralysed as to what to do next. It was Winter who jarred him into action; her hand gripped his shoulder and her fingers dug into his flesh, a silent message to focus.

He stood up, began walking. "Comms, tell Rogue Squadron to haul themselves out of there, _now_! Tactical, keep track of every single damn ship out there and get me threat projections! Keep an eye out for any ship that tries to run and get me a hyperspace vector for projected destination point!"

He had reached Ackbar's seat. "Chamber Master, commence primary ignition."

"Target?"

Madine pointed to the Death Star, his arm shaking with fury. "Take a guess," he said.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Sir?"

The querulous query from the extremely nervous technician was the only sound in a conference room which momentarily seemed to be occupied by statues. Thrawn was standing over the body of Ackbar, Ben over the cowering shape of Palpatine. For an instant all seemed afraid to break the pause after the uninterrupted terror and chaos of the previous few minutes.

"Yes?" Thrawn answered the question.

"The _Alderaan _has targeted us, sir," the technician gulped. "Full power. Estimated time before firing less than ninety seconds. We can't match that speed, sir."

Amazingly, it almost looked like Thrawn was struck dumb by the revelation. No-one had ever seen him lost for a course for action. That had been his greatest strength as a leader and a strategist; he simply refused to be beaten. But for a heartbeat, he simply stood there amidst the corpses of the fallen, stunned at the ferocity of the combat that had whirled up around them.

The moment passed, and he was Thrawn again.

"Fire up the engines and prepare to enter an exit vector to the navicomputer," he told the technician, who raced off to obey. "Restrain him," he told the reinforcement stormtroopers, indicating Palpatine. They dragged the once-Emperor to his feet and held him securely by the arms.

Thrawn walked to Ben and stood nose-to-nose with him, staring deep into his eyes. Ben had been probed by some of the finest Jedi and Sith the galaxy had to offer and had shielded his inner thoughts; it had been his greatest skill. He suddenly found himself thankful he had never encountered Thrawn in that time.

"You will take us to the installation you described?" Thrawn asked him.

Ben nodded. "One condition."

Thrawn wasted no time. "Name it."

Ben licked his lips. "You will restore the Force to my father and me."

Thrawn mulled it over for the briefest of moments. He nodded. Ben saw the light of hope kindle in Palpatine's eyes behind him. "I have a condition also."

"Name it," Ben said evenly.

Thrawn walked to the table and acquired a blaster rifle from one of the fallen stormtroopers. He placed it into Ben Skywalker's hands and subjected him to another one of those soul-searching looks, before stepping aside, so that nothing stood between Ben and Palpatine.

"Finish it," Thrawn instructed him. "You, now. Finish it."

The brief light of hope in the old man's eyes died to be replaced with anger, confusion, fear. He mustered himself to form that hateful face into one final expression of contemptuous amusement. "You're weak," he told Ben. "Weak, just like your fath-"

_Blam_.

He slumped in the grip of the stormtroopers holding him. A neat hole shone through the centre of his forehead. As they released his body, his nerveless corpse collapsed to the deck, the eyes of every officer in the room following its every movement.

"Set your course for the Corellian system," Ben said quietly. "Adjust it by point three five and alert me when we're twenty light-years out. We'll make the final adjustment then."

Thrawn gestured to Pellaeon. "Captain…?"

Pellaeon, efficient as ever, nodded. "Aye, Admiral," he assured his superior, and left the room to carry out the orders.

Ben had discarded the rifle and was crouching by his father. Vader was very weak. The pauses between breaths were lengthening with each laboured exhalation. He was fading fast, and Ben knew it.

Thrawn's shadow fell over him. Ben glanced upward. "He's dying," he said simply. "He needs the Force to heal."

Thrawn turned to the stormtroopers fitted with ysalamiri. "Lieutenant, you're on personal assignment to me until stated otherwise," he advised him. "Stay within ten feet of me at all times. Do you understand?"

"Aye, sir."

His attention shifted to a second trooper. "Have the stasis fields on the other ysalamiri reactivated. Bring Lord Vader to the medbay. Keep him out of range of any ysalamiri."

Thrawn, the ever-present Rukh, and the stormtrooper he'd ordered to follow him began to step back to the far end of the conference room.

"Wait," Ben said suddenly, something important occurring to him. He pointed to where Palpatine lay. "You have to keep another ysalamiri around his body."

Again, Thrawn did not waste time with questions; he simply nodded to another trooper and the man undid his nutrient backpack and placed it beside the corpse.

Ben placed his hands around his father's body and dragged him to his feet. He supported him as best he could and moved him away. As they moved, passing a certain point of distance from Palpatine's corpse and from Thrawn's stormtrooper, Ben Skywalker inhaled sharply – the universe around him seemed to colour, to bloom, as if it were expanding inward and outward simultaneously, growing into a dimension full of vibrancy and life that until that moment he had forgotten even existed.

The Force was again with him.

He reached out with it, felt his father's pain, his injuries. And to his relief, he felt his father's Force presence, falteringly weak at first, but already growing stronger. Vader's head moved. He was regaining consciousness.

"Thank you," Ben told Thrawn, as he helped his father to find his feet and support himself. He saw Thrawn give the briefest of nods in return, before turning to leave, presumably for the bridge.

"Wait," Ben called. Thrawn turned. Ben indicated Palpatine's body and managed to give a grim smile. "Our dear departed Emperor has one final role to play."

---------------------------------------------------------

Rogue Squadron made sport of the odds. They considered an even match unfair, on the basis that they were the Rogues; anyone else…well, wasn't. Being outmatched three-to-one was more their style.

Being outmatched three _thousand_ to one, though…

"Watch it, Rogue Eight!" Wedge hollered, desperately throwing his X-Wing into another series of near-suicidal banks and dives. "You've got…" he glanced at his instruments, and blinked sweat from his eyes, "…_lots _on your tail," he finished.

"You take the three hundred on the left!" Jansen's voice came over the comm. Wedge would have found time to find the gallows humour in the statement if he wasn't too busy hauling tail in a one-eighty manoeuvre that bought him another ten seconds of continued existence. There were, at a rough estimate, about thirty TIEs on his six…and his seven, and eight…and possibly his nine, ten and eleven too.

He was dead. He knew it. He would die as somehow he'd known he always would; above the nightmarish surface of this blasted all to hell artificial moon, perishing in a glorious, brief fireball of superheated plasma just like Biggs and Porkins and the rest had done at Yavin.

He came out of the spin and levelled out – and felt the breath leave his lungs in a deflated _whee_. Coming straight at him were…well, he lost count. Somewhere north of fifteen TIE Interceptors. They'd be in range in seconds and he'd never be able to avoid the volley of laserfire they'd pepper the air with.

So it was with some surprise that he watched them scatter in all directions, as if they were a flock of birds suddenly frightened by some huge predator in their midst.

"The _Alderaan _is about to fire!" Dack fairly screamed in his headset. "We're right in the line of impact!"

"Rogues, scatter!" he commanded, though they'd already be doing just that. Every single small ship, every Star Destroyer for that matter, within a million mile radius would be hellbent on putting as much space between themselves and the Death Star as possible-

"Wedge!" it was Madine's voice. "Get clear!"

"Right with you," Wedge assured him. He was turning the ship toward Coruscant and heading straight for the rest of the Imperial fleet stationed there – they would have other priorities right now than destroying one X-Wing.

Behind him now, the Death Star moved. For a vessel the size of a small moon, its sublight engines were amazingly powerful. Wedge keyed his navicomputer out of a vague sense of morbid curiosity, and found that his suspicions were correct.

"Looks like they're leaving," he observed. With the one ship capable of taking the _Alderaan _down in a straight shootout gone, Coruscant would be there for the taking.

"Wedge," it was Madine again. "We won't get them before they go to hyperspace. Ackbar got one last communication out before they turned on him in there. He told us to stop the Death Star leaving, or track it if it did leave. Can you pull a hyperspace vector for its likely destination?"

"No problem," Wedge replied. His navicomp got to work decoding exactly that even as the Death Star's sublight engines got enough speed up to charge the hyperspace generators. "Got it!" he cried in triumph. A moment later, the Death Star exhibited that telltale flash of pseudomotion before vanishing into hyperspace. He turned the X-Wing around, as did the rest of Rogue Squadron. "I'm transmitting it to you now."

---------------------------------------------------------

The tactical officer aboard the _Alderaan _blinked. His readout…it almost looked like before it had disappeared into hyperspace, the Death Star had actually launched a proton torpedo at them. A single, lone, proton torpedo.

He debated whether to bring it to General Madine's attention. But what could he say? Their shields were already up. He doubted the power dip from absorbing the impact of one miserable proton torpedo against their enormous, nigh-on impenetrable shield would show up even on the most low-level power consumption charts.

He said nothing.

He would come to re-examine that decision at least once a day for the rest of his life.

---------------------------------------------------------

It did look like a proton torpedo. As it streaked across space, closing the distance between itself and the _Alderaan_, a tiny blip against that immense sphere, anyone could have been forgiven for thinking that was what it was.

In reality, however, it was rather more than that. For a start, no explosives were contained within its casing. Instead, a single ysalamiri resided within. Simplistic, sessile creatures, it was securely fastened to its personal life-support system, the artificial nutrient branch that Thrawn had helped to develop. It was quite blissfully unaware that it was hurtling through space at an extremely respectable percentage of lightspeed.

The other occupant of the hollow casing was likewise unperturbed by their high-speed, one-way journey. But then, the man formerly known as Darth Sidious and Emperor Palpatine of the Galactic Empire wasn't overly perturbed about very much at the moment, given that he was dead.

A time-delayed relay activated. A tiny explosive affixed to the nutrient branch _bleeped_, and an equally tiny explosion signalled the end of the ysalamiri's life. Sad, certainly, but galactically speaking not a huge event.

Except that with its death, the Force-empty bubble it had been generating surrounding the hollow torpedo shell ceased to exist.

The Force rushed to fill this vacuum, and almost one hundred years of Dark Side energies…almost a century of hate and anger and fear, of betrayal and murder and deceit…all of these sins hit the corpse inside, all at once, without the immensely powerful mind which once channelled these dark impulses into an energy source there to act as a safety valve.

The torpedo exploded, not with a minor flare of proton detonation as the unfortunate tactical officer had anticipated, but with the power of the greatest Sith Lord in millennia behind it.

It went through the _Alderaan_'s shield as if it wasn't there.

---------------------------------------------------------

Wedge saw it. He saw the _Alderaan _spin on its axis, saw its energy shield fluctuate and splutter.

"What the hell…" he breathed. He had been expecting he and the rest of his Squadron to make good on their head-start they had on their multitude of Imperial pursuers and quickly dock with the _Alderaan_.

The immense structure righted itself, ponderously.

"Rogue Leader to _Alderaan_," he hailed them. "What in the Force just happened to you?"

"Not sure," the response came after a few moments, from a dazed-sounding Madine. "Something hit us…"

There was a pause. Someone was talking on the other end. Judging by the tone, it wasn't good news. "Rogue Leader," Madine's voice came back, "that blast knocked out our engines. Weapons are still online, but we're not going anywhere."

"Understood," Wedge acknowledged. It could have been worse.

"We can handle the Imperials here. I want you and Rogue Squadron to pursue the Death Star. By the time we're mobile again, we could have lost their trail."

"Copy that," Wedge heard himself saying. He even heard himself give the order to the rest of his Squadron, punch in the co-ordinates to the navicomputer on his X-Wing.

_A pitiful little band of X-Wings against a Death Star. Worked out so well the first time_. He pushed the thought out his head with a physical effort.

"Good luck," Madine told him.

"Stay alive, Wedge," Winter's voice echoed a second later.

He didn't - couldn't - reply. He pulled the hyperspace lever and was gone, his Squadron following a half-second later.


	43. Point of No Return

Galaxies Apart

Forty Two

He watched them.

They scrambled here and there, exchanging jokes and banter, throwing tools to one another. He watched how the boy - so young in Wookiee terms, let alone in human - would wait until he believed his father was looking away, and would gaze at him with such sadness in his heart it was all he could do to stay quiet. The boy's looks reminded him very much of the expression his own son Lumpawaroo wore every time his father's hand rested on his shoulder by the treetop docking station, an unspoken affirmation of love and regret that once again they would be parted.

Han was kind, of course. He had made excuses for stopovers at Kashyyyk at the flimsiest premise to give him a chance to spend some precious time with his family. He had offered more than once to cancel the life-debt sworn to him and allow Chewbacca to be with those he loved. But in doing so, he proved that no matter how mighty a friend he had become, he would never understand the Wookiee ways fully. Chewbacca could no more discard that life debt than he could stop breathing. And so he was destined to travel with Han amongst the stars, protecting his friend from any harm that would come his way.

For this reason he was often suspicious, if not downright hostile, of passengers they picked up; Han had his fine qualities, no doubt, but not paramount within them was a tendency to associate with fine upstanding citizens. So when the Jedi had joined their party on Tatooine, he had reacted with his usual mixture of standoffish hostility and protectiveness toward his captain...

...for about an hour.

How in the galaxy Han failed to realise who this young man really was, Chewbacca had puzzled over in his silent way for a long time now. It was so obvious - the looks that sought approval, the body language, even that lopsided Solo smile that Han had practically invented.

Yoda had known, of course. His old friend the Jedi Master knew most things. In a quiet moment before his death, he had instructed Chewbacca to keep the truth to himself.

"His own journey to make, the young Jedi has," Yoda had said. "Choose his own time, he will."

The thought struck him that perhaps his friend was so blind to the truth because in all the time he had known him, Han had never discussed children. He had been an adoptive uncle to Chewie's own brood, of course, and an affectionate uncle at that. But Chewie considered that deep down, Han Solo harboured serious doubts about himself as a person that all of his bluster served to mask - and fairly high up on those doubts, he would warrant, was the notion that he could ever serve as an effective father figure to anyone.

"What has you so quiet, furball?"

Chewie growled at some length in response with a few hand gestures thrown in. Han's eyebrows rose in mock indignation. "You kiss Mallatobuck with that mouth?" he said. "Hand me that hydrospanner, will ya? And where in the Maw are Luke and M-"

"Right here," the answering call came. Right on cue, Luke and Mara had returned from their voyage back to the _Falcon_. Chewie saw Han's tension levels plummet by about three hundred percent; allowing Mara Jade access to his ship without he or Chewie there had just about been the most trusting thing he'd ever done.

"Master Luke, you're back!" Threepio burbled excitedly, walking in that erratic way of his over to the returning pair, hefting a crate of power couplings between them.

Chewie lumbered over. Luke sighed gratefully and mouthed a thanks as he simply reached down with those massive arms and accepted the crate from their grasp as if it weighed nothing.

"Remind me again…why you didn't...come along?" Mara wheezed. Chewie _hnufed _a response that left her none the wiser. "So glad I...asked," she grimaced.

"What took you so long?" Han asked, not entirely seriously. "We were starting to think maybe you were-"

"Stop _right _there, Solo," Mara clipped instantly, much to Han's delight.

"How we doing?" Luke asked, patting Artoo's dome by way of greeting; the little droid had wheeled itself to his side also.

Chewie had carried the couplings to the main power relays. He was already slotting them into place in the grid, heaving them out of the crate with dizzying efficiency. The systems would fire just fine without them, but the technology they were dealing with here was who knew how old, and worked on capacitors. The couplings would greatly reduce the time it would take for the power to build up.

Kyp held up a hand to Luke's question, much to Luke's obvious surprise. Chewie slotted the last relay into place into the grid, forming a complete feedback loop.

The result was immediate.

Every single light, every console, wall panel and readout surged into life. The omnipresent _thrumm _they had all learned to ignore over the last few hours seemed to stutter, to choke, almost like a speeder bike engine trying to catch...and that may have been the best analogy, for a second later the engine _caught _with a roar that sent a quake through the floor.

"Systems now online," a hitherto unheard computer voice sounded, startling them somewhat.

Kyp beamed delightedly at Luke. "_That's _how we're doing," he said, and pointed.

The targeting console for the holo-map of the galaxy was undergoing a transformation. New reticles were appearing. The modification nodules and toggles looked as if they were actually _growing _new parts, as if the technology itself was a living thing.

"Not bad," even Han Solo had to admit. "Not bad at all."

"We're only just warming up," Kyp assured him, fairly bounding over to the targeting console. "Watch _this_."

They looked up into the circular expanse that formed the projection space of the holo-imaging system. Since their arrival in this room they'd grown accustomed to the wonders the galaxy map could produce at the spin of a control. So it was without much reaction they watched as the galaxy sprang to life around them once more.

"Zooming in..." Kyp said. The map obeyed his command, starfields expanding crazily around them as their birds-eye view of the galaxy swooped through the plane of stars, clusters of them flashing past in an instant, until-

"An asteroid field?" Solo asked.

"Oh…" was all Luke said. He had anticipated what was to happen next.

Kyp spun one of the new controls. They watched the field rotate, spin...and beheld the sight of the smaller asteroids zooming toward one another until they impacted. Rather than fly apart, though, they stuck together. Gradually, the asteroid field was shrinking into less and less component parts, bigger and bigger asteroids, until-

A blinding, searing flash of light. Kyp's hand froze on the dial.

"Alderaan," he said softly.

They stood in silent reverie. The Shining Star of the Core Worlds. For centuries of Old Republic governance it had been, along with Coruscant, the very epicentre of galactic civilisation. Dominated by stunning natural landmarks, by ancient mountains of unrivalled beauty and grasslands immense in scope and teeming with life, it served almost as a natural counterpoint to Coruscant.

Kyp clicked the dial forward. The controls responded partially to his physical commands of them, but only partially; the machines sensed his intentions through the Force, and through that medium he was able to manipulate the gigantic holo above them in a manner so precise it would have been beyond traditional methods.

The Death Star appeared in orbit.

Luke turned to him. "Don't," he implored. "I don't want to see it. Please."

"This is how you're going to operate the time portal?" Mara asked.

Kyp nodded. "The holo targets the time and space co-ordinates. Before..." he flinched at the memory, realising to his surprise that he hadn't actually thought about it in some time now, "...a personal portal was used, one that connected direct to a planetary surface. I can expand that to a portal big enough for us to fly through. It'll be generated outside the station."

"So this is it," Han said. He was keeping his voice steady with some effort. A sense of unreality still clutched at him about this whole deal, as if merely busying himself in some form of a plan had been enough to satisfy him compared to the life of a fugitive he'd previously been living. Now that they were actually set to do it, he found himself struck dumb by the sheer enormity of the idea.

But not for long.

"Well, what are we standin' around here waiting for?" Han grinned. "Fire her up and let's get the hell outta here!"

He would remember that moment, that single glorious moment with a horizon of possibilities stretching out before them, as the last moment when that romantic notion of going back and fixing the ills of the galaxy seemed as simple as setting a course with the _Falcon_'s navicomp and his friends at his side and flying through.

After that, it all started to go wrong. Very wrong indeed.

Luke was the first to say it. "I hear ya, Han, but...where exactly, and _when_ exactly, I guess...are we going?"

Everyone looked at everyone else. Even Artoo let loose with what sounded for all the world like an embarrassed whistle.

"We have to put history back on track," Kyp said firmly. "That means the Death Star has to be destroyed. Luke's torpedo has to do the job it was meant to do."

"Right," Luke said. He always warmed to the topic of how he'd been cheated out of that particular moment. "So we need to go back and stop that...what'dja call it?"

"The proton inhibitor," Kyp supplied. "Right. My guess is it was placed sometime before Alderaan, so we need to track the Death Star's movements before then and get aboard somehow, find that inhibitor, and..."

He trailed off. He looked up. They all did.

They all looked up at Alderaan.

"Oh...oh..." Kyp said, through a throat suddenly parchment dry. He was utterly stunned at his own stupidity.

"When you say put history back on track..." Luke said slowly, "...do you mean we have to _allow_ Alderaan to be destroyed?"

Kyp didn't respond. "If that was how history originally played out, then the answer is yes," Mara Jade observed. Luke could have screamed at her for her dispassion. She must have sensed his feelings, for she glanced at him, radiating puzzlement.

"No," Kyp said. "No, we can't. All those people...we can save them."

Han inhaled. Sure, they had just spoken airily of saving the galaxy. But saving a galaxy was an intangible idea, a pipe dream that couldn't really be grasped by the mind. Abruptly, though, the prospect of reversing one of the greatest war crimes in galactic history brought home even more the scale of what they were proposing to do.

He felt as though the holo of the planet were weighing down on him, every single person frozen in that moment of time, the mothers, fathers, children, all looking to him for action.

He was not the only one with such a feeling.

"We'll go back earlier," Kyp said slowly. "Before they got to the Alderaanian system. Before they captured Mom above Tatooine! If we save her from that, Tarkin has no reason to destroy Alderaan to try and force..."

"Mom?"

He trailed off.

"Mom?" Han asked again. Chewie closed his eyes, every inch of his two-metre frame wishing he could spare his oldest friend what was about to result of that one-word slip.

Luke placed his hand on Kyp's shoulder. He met the young Jedi's eyes. Chewie realised that Skywalker knew, also. "It's time," Skywalker said simply.

"Time for what?" Han asked, going slightly hoarse now with sudden fear gripping his heart. "Y'know if someone around here doesn't start giving me some answers, so help me I'll-"

"Leia is my mother."

Han rocked back on his heels. "But she-" he began, and then realised the silliness of what he was about to point out. "Oh," he settled for weakly, and could only watch numbly as Kyp fished around in his pockets until he produced the personal holo-generator he had shown to Han so long ago now, seemingly, in orbit above Tatooine.

The holo flickered into life. As before, Han gazed at the image of himself, Luke, Leia, Kyp and the girl all standing on Yavin IV, all wearing carefree smiles.

This time he looked closer.

Kyp, no more than eight years old in the picture, was holding his hand. The girl was holding Leia's. And Han and Leia were holding each other's.

He felt his knees give, just a little, and pulled himself together with a visible effort to stop himself sinking to the floor. If he'd considered the idea of saving a planet almost too enormous to contemplate bare seconds ago, it was suddenly dwarfed in scale next to this.

She had been taken from him. He'd had to get used to that, and he'd never quite managed it. Learning from Kyp that they had meant to be together eased his mind somewhat at his inability to cope with her removal from his life. But it hadn't just been Leia that he'd been cheated from. His _children _had been taken from him.

His _children_.

"You're my son?" he said. The words seemed to come from a long way away, as if someone had thrown a sonic grenade and he hadn't noticed its effects.

"My name is Jacen. The girl is Jaina. My sister. My twin," the young man he had known as Kyp all this time told him.

Han felt his breath catch in his throat. "Twins?" he said. He felt as though he were about to-

-and with a gasp of pain, Mara Jade went from standing upright to laid out on the floor, clutching her head and crying out in pain. As Luke and Jacen rushed past him to help her to her feet, Han smiled dazedly. "Isn't that my line?" he asked. Chewie shrugged.

"He's dead," she was saying. "He's…dead. He's dead. He's _dead_."

"Who?" Jacen was asking.

"Palpatine," the reply came.

"Who's dead, Mara?" Jacen asked again.

Luke blinked. "Didn't you hear her?" he said. "She said-"

"Luke?"

Belatedly, he realised the voice that had spoken had not come from Mara. Mara was still prostrate on the ground, clutching her head in distress. The voice had…he turned his head, and felt his jaw drop open.

"Hello, Luke."

"_Obi-Wan?_"

So it was. Granted, he had never seen Ben Kenobi surrounded by a shimmering blue-white light, but since the last time he'd seen him he'd just been cut in two by Vader's crimson lightsaber blade, Obi-Wan was still in remarkable fettle.

As if in a dream, Luke walked away from the others. Preoccupied with Mara's sudden illness or their own sudden parenthood, no-one noticed his departure right away. "What…how are you…?"

Obi-Wan just smiled. "It's good to see you again, Luke. You've become strong in the Force since we last talked," and his expression changed just a little towards sadness, "very strong indeed."

Luke didn't know what to say. In the years he'd spent in the wilderness since Yavin IV, there were nights alone in the void dreaming of Trenches that he'd begged Obi-Wan to come back to him, to look at him with those eyes full of wisdom and compassion and to tell him what to do. He had possessed such quiet conviction in his voice. He had never seemed fazed or daunted by any task or hardship.

He would not have missed the shot. That was what Luke used to tell himself.

"We're…we're going to fix it," he said. The glow of the holographic Alderaan still lit the immense interior of the Control Room. Obi-Wan glanced upward, clearly understanding the meaning behind Luke's words. Luke waited for the congratulations, to be told how proud his old mentor was of him for being able to accomplish something like this, an act of such pure goodness that even the much-vaunted Jedi legends of the Old Republic, with all their mastery, had never been able to match.

Instead he watched Obi-Wan's smile and gentle demeanour fell away. "Luke – you have to stop him."

"Stop him?" Luke repeated. "Stop who?"

"Jacen. What he's planning to do – Luke, there are things about this station you don't understand; things about the _Force_ you don't understand…" his expression softened, "…I didn't fully understand them myself until I became one with the Force."

"How can saving Alderaan be a bad thing?" Luke said, not quite believing what he was hearing.

"Someone not so far away from where we stand once said that there was no mystical energy field controlling _his _destiny," Obi-Wan replied. Luke glanced at Han. Mara Jade had gotten back to her feet, and Han had taken the opportunity to pull Jacen aside – the two were now conversing alone. Luke's departure was still under the radar.

"He was right, of course – the Force does not control destiny; at least, not entirely. But the power of this station to _undo _destiny…Luke, that goes against everything the Force is. The murder of Alderaan and its people was an unconscionable act of tyranny and evil…but it pushed more fringe systems and undecided groups toward the Rebellion in one swift stroke than a thousand rallying speeches could have accomplished."

"I'm sure that was a great comfort to them," Luke shot back.

"Of course it wasn't. It was evil, Luke. But it was the _way things happened. _When this galaxy was turned from its proper path, it damaged permanently the relationship between it and the Force. If you allow Jacen to do this…that relationship will worsen further…or it could sever completely."

"What are you saying?"

"Do this, and you may well destroy the Force's link to life-forms in the galaxy. The symbiosis will be broken. Forever. No more Jedi-"

"-and no more Sith?"

Apparently Jacen had ended his conversation with his father earlier than expected. And apparently, Obi-Wan's spirit wasn't as intangible to everyone but Luke as previously thought.

"Is that it? No more Sith? No more of those devastating wars between Jedi and Sith like the three or four the galaxy has _already_ suffered through? No more Sith Lords like Exar Kun, like Malak, like Sidious and Vader and who knows in the future to torture and kill and destroy the lives of billions of innocents? Is that it, Obi-Wan? Is that what the death of the Force will bring us?"

Obi-Wan addressed Luke, and Luke only. "Stop him."

Jacen ignored this. "All the Force has ever brought this galaxy is pain and death. If we can save an entire planet from being used as an example at the whim of a madman who should never have come to…" and again, he trailed off.

"Stop him," Obi-Wan said again, and faded.

"Wait!" Luke called out desperately, but the Jedi Master was gone.

Jacen had that glint in his eyes again. The same glint that had been there when he'd realised the possibility of going back and saving Alderaan. Then, Luke had welcomed it. Now, it seemed slightly manic and not a little intimidating.

"Don't you see?" he turned, his voice raising to address them all. "We've been so _stupid! _All of us! We can't see beyond our own lifetimes; we're thinking small, too blasted _small_."

"Saving Alderaan is small?" Luke inquired cautiously. He was liking where this was going less and less with each passing moment.

"Yes! We have a _time machine _here, don't you see! The ability to go back to _any moment _in time and improve the future…_think _of it! What point is there in treating the symptoms of a disease if you can go back and eliminate the disease itself?"

He sprang to the dials before anyone could stop him. Alderaan vanished. The galaxy returned to the view, spinning, the targeting reticle buzzing around its interior like an enraged _mrruyshi _fly at Jacen's commands, his hands dancing so quickly over the controls that those watching could no longer even see his fingers move.

Another planet appeared overhead. Again, it was one they all could recognise easily; it was doubtful there were many in the galaxy who couldn't discern the planet-spanning metropolis of Coruscant at a single glance.

Seconds later, the viewer homed in on a scene that was familiar to anyone who had grown up in the last two generations. It was a moment that had been holo-recorded from all angles and replayed endlessly in Academies across Imperial space.

Palpatine's inaugural speech as Emperor.

He towered over them all now, cowled and robed for the first time in his Palpatine persona. His scars, fresh from the result of the botched attempt on his life by Mace Windu, were as big as crevasses; his yellow eyes huge lakes of malicious intent. It was a case of spectacularly bad timing for Mara Jade, who had been trying to cope with the Force-transmitted impact of his death.

"Shut it off," she said, weakly at first but with increasing strength and anger. "Shut it off. Shut _it off!_"

Jacen Solo wasn't listening to her pleas. He wasn't listening to anything. He was caught up in the ecstasy of possibilities that had unravelled before him, and primary amongst them this one, sweetest of them all.

"The disease," Jacen said, as Palpatine's gargantuan holo smiled above them.

"_Shut it off!_"

"Jacen!" Luke said. He had moved to stand close to Jacen. Close enough to convey that he wasn't exactly asking Jacen to do what Mara said. It need not have mattered. Jacen happily spun the controls again, and the holo above them thankfully dissolved into the usual blinding flurry of images and places, before settling on yet another planet. This one Luke didn't recognise.

"Yes," Jacen said softly. "Yes. Perfect."

"Where is-"

The computer voice spoke again. "Time and space co-ordinates confirmed. Planet Naboo. Estimated displacement: Fifty-seven standard years."

"Wait just a minute-"

"Portal generation process started," the computer continued. "Warning: unknown time-dilation effects may occur inside station prior to generation."

"_STOP!"_

Jacen finally seemed to register Luke's presence. The forcefulness of Luke's shout may have had something to do with assisting this process.

Luke's ignited lightsaber may also have been a factor.

"What are you doing, Luke?" Jacen asked, his eyes fixed on the saber. The blade was poised and ready. Luke was not in a duelling stance, but neither was he relaxed.

"Yeah, just what the hell do you think you're-"

"Han, stay out of this."

"It's okay, Dad," Jacen waved Han back. At any other time he would have smiled in relief at finally being able to use the word to Han. Not now.

"This whole expedition was about changing history back to how it was. Repairing the damage that was done. Now you're talking about going back over half a century. Changing history. Isn't that what got us into trouble in the first place?"

"We're removing the most evil man of the last thousand years from power. Preventing him from manipulating his way into a position where he can cause the deaths of billions. We can _stop the Clone Wars from ever happening_, Luke. Imagine that!"

"And what then, Jacen?" Luke retorted. "Bad things happened before Palpatine came to power. Where will it end? Are we gonna go back and take out every tyrant, every Sith Lord who ever existed?"

Jacen's eyes flashed. "Why not?" he demanded. "What's to stop us?"

Luke's stance shifted from neutral to duelling.

"I am."

In an instant Jacen's own lightsaber was out and ignited, one smooth Force-assisted motion that the eyes could not follow. Jacen's jaw was set. "Don't do this, Luke."

"Oh dear oh dear!" Threepio wailed in alarm. Artoo let loose with a mournful whistle at his side. Chewie unholstered his bowcaster and growled low in the back of his throat. After a pause, the weapon swung to point at Luke. It was a custom for Wookiee life-debts to be extended to cover the children of those under its protection. He was not about to make an exception.

A moment later, Mara Jade had drawn her own compact blaster. It was pointed squarely at Chewie.

Han took all of this in. "Have you _all_ gone completely _insane_?!" he burst out. "We're all meant to be on the same side here!"

No one responded. Luke and Jacen began to circle each other, sabers rising and falling, probing for an opening in the other's defensive posture. Han threw up his hands in despair and removed his own blaster, targeting Mara Jade. No matter how crazy this was, he couldn't risk Chewie's life.

"Just when I thought there were no more surprises left," Luke said softly.

Jacen smiled. "Trust me when I tell you – you have _no _idea."

"Incoming vessel detected emerging from hyperspace," the computer announced. "On holo."

The planet Naboo changed; its blues and greens bled away to be replaced by a uniform grey, its spheroid shape developing a pronounced pockmark in its northern hemisphere. So engrossed were each of the participants in the standoff that it took Artoo's electronic squeal of terror to make them look up and see.

"Warning: vessel has locked weapons," the computer continued, quite calmly.

Luke locked eyes with Jacen. "You really weren't kidding, were you?" he said.

That was all he had time for, before the superlaser beam lanced out and struck them dead centre.


	44. May The Force Be With You

Galaxies Apart

Forty Three

"How long have you been here?"

Ben raised his head. He had been slumbering a little, which in an Imperial medbay was not the easiest thing in the galaxy to do; the beds were made with such sharp corners that you

He checked the chrono display on the medical readouts. "Nine hours," he said, feeling some measure of disbelief at that himself.

The Too-Onebee medical droid glided smoothly over to where Vader lay, its calm demeanour and graceful movements seeming quite out of place in these stark surroundings. "Your vitals have improved considerably," it said, delicate surgeon-thin fingers working controls, "your prognosis: full recovery, but I must ask that you attempt to get some rest."

If Vader minded being dictated to by a mere droid, he kept a lid on it. "Very well," was his only response. Satisfied, Too-Onebee glided off again.

"The Force is with us," Vader observed.

"Yes."

"How?"

"I made a deal with Thrawn."

"You killed the Emperor."

Again, it was an observation, not a question. "Yes," Ben admitted. Strangely, he felt no great pride at the act. He had killed many times, in warm blood and in cold, and the act had always sent a thrill of excitement through him. Not here.

"I did it for you," he said quietly.

Vader rose. Even now, even here, he was still an imposing figure, and it was all Ben could do not to take a step back as his father got to his feet. Too-OneBee's immediate protests were silenced with a raised hand; the droid's arms went limp as Vader deactivated him with a stray thought.

"I am not what you would ask me to be," he told Ben.

"You're my father," Ben replied.

Vader looked away for a moment. "Yes," he said eventually. "That much is true. But I cannot be what you need me to be."

Ben flushed, anger rising within him. "And what do I _need_?" he asked, turning away from Vader and walking a few steps, the better to get distance between them.

"Do you know?" Vader asked.

"What are you _talking_ about?"

Vader's mask was, as usual, blankly impassive. "Why did you travel back, Ben?"

Memories of the discovery of Site Zero in his original timeline flashed across Ben's memory; the station's capabilities…his decision…and his final showdown with the much-vaunted Master Skywalker shortly before he had walked through that magic doorway to the past.

"I never mattered," he said. "I was…a galactic accident. A leftover remnant of the evil scheme of a Dark Jedi who should have been killed. Instead I was left alive, to slowly realise what I was…and what I could never be. But in the past – I could write my own future. I could-"

"Take your revenge?"

He shrugged. Why be afraid to say it? Only for the Jedi was revenge forbidden, and it had been a long time since Ben had pretended to be a Jedi. "Sure," he admitted.

"Then why hide yourself away? Why accomplish your mission to change the past and destroy Yavin IV and then just fade?"

"I knew no-one would believe me if I came out with the truth," Ben said. "I wanted to gain Palpatine's trust slowly, build up his confidence in me before I…"

"That," Vader cut him off without hesitation, "is a lie."

Ben was all set to fire back in his own defence, to ask Darth Vader how the hell he knew what was lies and what was truth…but something inside him crumbled at the thought, a part of him that knew his father was right. Since they'd met, Vader had demonstrated an innate ability to see into Ben's soul in a way no-one, not even Luke (to his eventual cost) had been able to. The simple statement of fact was spoken with such conviction that Ben simply couldn't muster a retort.

_Will he be able to see into Luke's soul in the same way? _Ben wondered, a flash of jealousy raging through him at the mere thought of it.

"You could have come to me," Vader went on. "You would have known from your history that I was engaged in a galactic search for my long-lost son. You could have come to me at any time, taken Luke's place. Instead, you hid yourself away. I wonder…would you ever have emerged from that exile, if the Noghri sent to you hadn't forced you to reveal yourself?"

Ben flinched at the words, recoiled from the truth behind them. "It's not that easy," he muttered, still with his back to Vader.

"No," Vader agreed. "The Dark Side of the Force, despite what some would say, is not easier. Quicker to learn, yes, but just as formidable to master as the Light. And unlike the Light, it carries much larger burdens with each step on the road to understanding."

Ben closed his eyes. As he did so, a memory seared itself across his mind's vision. It left an impression so strong that Vader felt it, would have felt it from a hundred thousand miles away.

"They died screaming," he whispered.

As Ben's thoughts were transmitted through the Force, Vader suddenly found himself reliving the closing moments of the Battle of Yavin IV. That mysterious ship had come from nowhere, obliterating one wingman and causing another to crash into his TIE, sending him spinning in a crazy loop away from the Death Star.

Seconds later, the superlaser beam had lanced out, and he had been buffeted not just by the physical shockwave, but by the emotional resonance of the Force reacting to the deaths of many thousands of sentient beings and billions of life-forms as Yavin IV was reduced to so much floating flotsam. Their screams had indeed rang loud.

One such scream, one among the multitude, had been from the mouth of his own daughter…

"I thought…I always had to believe that there was something I could do that he couldn't do," Ben said. "And one day it was all so clear to me; he couldn't fall to the Dark Side. He'd been given the opportunities, but he couldn't. And in that moment I saw my chance to finally eclipse him."

"I fell for love," Vader said. "You fell for hate."

"Sometimes," Ben told him, "they're hard to tell apart."

With that, he walked out of the medbay, leaving Vader alone with his thoughts.

---------------------------------------------------------

"ETA?"

"Fifteen minutes."

Sitting in the central chair on the Death Star's bridge, Thrawn did not respond to the news. His hands were steepled in front of his face. Pellaeon guessed the gesture was not one born of inner peace. It had been less than two hours since they had dropped from hyperspace at the pre-arranged co-ordinates and Ben Skywalker, good to his word, had provided the subsequent course heading he had promised would lead them to their destination.

Their destination. Pellaeon winced. As to _that…_he blew out a breath, softly for none to hear. He had grown accustomed to the unusual extremely quickly in his relatively short tenure serving under _Grand _Admiral Thrawn (as he had now been rechristened), but this mission all but beggared belief. Personally, he would have bedded in at Coruscant and focussed on attempting to take out the Alliance's Death Star – to end this resurgent civil war in one stroke.

Instead, the Grand Admiral had taken the one vessel capable of matching the jewel in the Alliance crown and thrown it halfway across the galaxy. Pellaeon grunted. As ever, had it been someone else – _anyone _else – he would already be harbouring doubts.

The side doors to the bridge _whooshed _open. Ben Skywalker and Darth Vader stepped through, escorted as always by stormtroopers – ysalamiri-free stormtroopers, however. Vader had healed his supposedly grave wounds astonishingly quickly with the restoration of the Force. Pellaeon took a long step to his left, so as to fall within the sphere of influence of Thrawn's personal ysalamiri.

_He should have let you die_…

"Lord Vader," Thrawn inclined his head politely. "You seem remarkably recovered."

"The Force is strong," was all Vader said in reply. Thrawn's hand was resting on the ysalamiri. If it was a reminder, it was an effective one.

"Tell me about this installation."

The instruction – it had clearly not been phrased as a request – had been directed at Ben. Pellaeon saw the younger man's eyes flash at the offhand manner with which he was being spoken to. The sheer arrogance of these Jedi, or Sith, or whatever the hell they liked to term themselves, never failed to irk him.

"What would you like to know?"

"Do we know who built it?"

Ben shook his head. "We were able to get the portal systems running. But the core memory…it's so old, so unlike anything we saw before. Doesn't match any known galactic technology."

"Then perhaps it hails from beyond our galaxy."

"_Beyond_ our galaxy?" Ben repeated doubtfully. "How is that even possible?"

Thrawn was studying him intently. "In the future you are so fond of describing…you never encountered any such races?"

"Should we have?"

Thrawn smiled. There was no humour whatsoever in the expression. "Forgive me – for a military man, the temptation to know how the future will unravel is too tempting to ignore."

"And yet you're willing to destroy the only means to find out yourself," Ben observed. "Isn't it tempting to have the means to control the past, view the future?"

"At the cost of making the present meaningless?" Thrawn countered. "If we can change the past at a whim to suit ourselves, we make every choice in life hollow."

"There's no event in your life you'd like to change the outcome of?" Ben pressed on.

"Of course there is," Thrawn conceded. "But what are we as beings if not the sum of our experiences, of the choices we have made in our lives? If I go back and rewrite my own past, who do I become?"

"Someone better?"

Thrawn smiled again, almost pityingly this time. "I thought we were talking about me," he said mildly. "Time travel is not an answer to personal regrets. And so, much as I would care to discover who built this marvellous station of yours…it must be destroyed."

Silent until that moment, Vader spoke. "My son is on that station."

"You have another," Thrawn replied.

Their lightsabers had long since been confiscated. Ben's hand itched to call his weapon to his side now. He felt the same urge radiate from his father. Since the Force had been restored to them, Ben had been amazed at the apathy of Vader's attitude. The Dark Lord of the Sith seemed past caring about the loss of his power, his rank, his Navy…his entire way of life.

But at the realisation that Thrawn meant to destroy Site Zero with Luke aboard rather than risk him time-travelling, Vader's mood had changed. Ben couldn't help but resent that change. Clearly for his father the prospect of reuniting with Luke was not something he was willing to give up.

_Would he be so concerned if it were me on that station?_

Thrawn was no fool. The air on the bridge had changed. With a single nod, more stormtroopers materialised as if from nowhere. These troops were equipped with ysalamiri backpacks, their stasis fields activated at present. Thrawn had his hand raised in the air – if it dropped, Pellaeon had no doubt, those fields would be deactivated instantly.

It was a standoff. With the Force at their side Ben and Vader could inflict damage, certainly – but they could not hope to inflict enough before the Force-empty bubble closed in around them…and that would be the end of the matter in short order, as Palpatine's demise had demonstrated.

No-one moved. No-one spoke.

"We're dropping to sublight," the helmsman broke the silence.

The mottled tunnel of hyperspace became the regular smattering of stars. All eyes flicked to the viewscreen and the view of the corner of space they currenly occupied. Involuntary intakes of breath resounded all over the bridge. Even Pellaeon, who prided himself on maintaining the decorum of command protocol demanded from senior officers, let loose a small expression of amazement.

Site Zero was massive. Not so massive as their own Death Star, certainly, but few things were. Its central spheroid hub was perhaps a third the circumference of their own vessel, the symmetrical sails attached to its left and right – which gave it, Pellaeon realised, the appearance of an enormous TIE Fighter – much larger.

A remarkable enough sight. But it was not the scale or shape of the station that drew a reaction from the Death Star crew.

The entire structure was _pulsating _with energy.

It crackled, sparked, arced and danced along every visible surface. The very space around the station seemed to seethe, fizz and boil at its touch, as if cowering from the power Site Zero was bathing in.

"The portal…" Ben said, before he could stop himself.

They looked closer, and there it was; a shimmering curtain of energy bisecting an area of space a few hundred meters across, no more than a thousand miles or so outside the station's hull. Every few seconds each tendril of power being pumped out was grounding itself to that curtain, reinforcing it, solidifying it.

"Ships?" Thrawn asked.

"Two ships docked with the station," the tactical officer informed him.

"They're still there…" Thrawn breathed, sagging with relief in what was an extremely uncharacteristic open show of emotion from the man. He was all business once again a heartbeat later. "Chamber Master – commence primary ignition."

"Wait!" Vader said, with equal measures of menace and desperation.

Thrawn could have lost his temper. He could have ordered his troops to attack. Most men in his position would have done so. "I understand your loss," he said instead, "but I will _not _risk everything we have achieved. You may have a place in the Empire yet, Darth. Don't make me cast you aside."

"We have more time," Vader said.

"He's right…" Ben said, a frown on his face slowly clearing to realisation. "Can't you feel it?"

"I don't have time for this."

"Sir…" a technician spoke up nervously, "…ah, we're getting…strange reports from all over the ship."

"Define _strange_."

"It's time," Ben replied before the technician could speak. "The station is bending time…that portal is drawing so much power. It's a ripple effect."

Thrawn looked to the technician questioningly. The man bobbed his head up and down nervously. "Systems are faulting all over the ship, sir – internal chronos are showing time differences between decks. Deck 48 is almost forty seconds behind Deck 17. Deck 28 is ten seconds _ahead _of us…"

"Luke and the others are affected also," Vader said. "Time is passing slowly for them compared with us."

Ben nodded. That explained the strange Force presences those aboard Site Zero were registering with him. "Right. For them, we would have set off from Coruscant maybe only a few minutes ago – for us, it was almost three days ago."

"Yet another good reason to remove the source," Thrawn concluded reasonably. "Chamber Master, are you able to charge the superlaser?"

The man nodded. "At the minute, Grand Admiral, yes – but I can't say for how much longer."

"Thrawn, _listen _to me!" Vader thundered, taking a few steps forward. The stormtroopers to each side of him closed ranks around Thrawn, cutting off his approach.

Thrawn ignored him. "Commence primary ignition," he said again.

"Aye, sir…" the Chamber Master replied, and moved his hand to comply-

-and froze.

Thrawn realised instantly what had happened. "Deactivate stasis fields!" he barked.

The ysalamiri-equipped stormtroopers complied with his order. One was standing within range of the Chamber Master; Pellaeon saw the man come up from his sudden trance as if waking from sleep.

"Stand down or I will shoot you down," Thrawn said, genuine anger in his voice.

"I won't forget this, Thrawn," Vader promised.

"Superlaser is charged, Grand Admiral."

"_Fire_," Thrawn hissed.

Two things happened concurrently. The first was that the superlaser began its firing sequence, primary beams merging at the point of coalescence perfectly before being propelled unstoppably toward its target-

The second-

"Sir! We have distress calls coming in!" the tactical officer reported.

"Source?"

The officer didn't respond. Couldn't respond. He had gone ashen pale. Pellaeon was at his side in half a dozen steps, even as the viewscreen behind him showed the superlaser beam roar through space and impact its target square and true. Pellaeon didn't see it. He was looking at the status reports coming in from decks all over the ship – status reports fragmented through time itself that showed…

"Dear God," he whispered.

The beam that had torn apart Alderaan and Yavin IV in a fraction of a second, that had yet to find anything it had failed to obliterate…was _absorbed _by the station, soaking up its titanic energies like a sponge. The energy discharges that been blanketing the region of space ceased altogether for a brief moment.

All too brief.

When they resumed, they had increased in intensity to a degree that made their earlier ferocity seem but a gentle prelude to the storm that was to come.

The Death Star around them began to shake and rumble, as on the viewscreen, they witnessed each discharge earthed itself as before in that shimmering curtain of energy that formed the portal. Helpless to do anything but watch in horror, Grand Admiral Thrawn and the remainder of the bridge crew saw that gateway bend, warp…

…and grow.

Oh, how it _grew_.

"ENGINES, FULL REVERSE!" Thrawn bellowed. Not only was the portal growing on the viewscreen because it was increasing in size exponentially, but because _they were moving toward it_.

Helm hollered their compliance. But Pellaeon knew it wouldn't be enough. He knew this because he'd already seen on the sensor readouts the Death Star continuing to move toward that huge, hungry event horizon suspended in space at an ever-decreasing distance.

He sensed Thrawn's eyes upon him. All it took was a shake of the head to tell his commanding officer how hopeless their situation was.

Thrawn whirled to face Vader and Ben. He pointed a finger. "You!" he cried out, and for a fleeting moment Pellaeon thought he was going to order them executed as being somehow to blame for this. He waved to the stormtroopers encircling them. "Get them to a shuttle! Both of you, get onto that station and shut down that portal before we're pulled through!" and as they hesitated, he added, "_NOW_!"

---------------------------------------------------------

Vader was at the controls as the shuttle pulled away from the Death Star's main hangar bay. The immensity of the portal was lighting up the entire surrounding area now, a miniature sun of space-time flux, dragging all nearby towards it.

But the Force was with them. And the Force was strong.

Through eyes closed with the effort of counteracting that gravitational attraction, Ben murmured, "They won't want us to shut them down."

"I know," Vader replied. There was a strain evident in his Force sense also. It was all their combined efforts could accomplish to prevent them being sucked into that portal. Strangely, the station itself seemed completely immune to the effect.

Ben couldn't help but appreciate the irony. Once, Luke Skywalker had travelled to the station they themselves were now swooping to dock with, a last gamble to prevent Ben from going to the past to change history. Now…

He felt a coldness in the pit of his stomach. At some level since travelling back to the past, he had suspected that the time would come when his father would have to make a choice as to which of his sons he would embrace and which he would discard.

Seemed like the waiting was about to be over.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Shuttle is away, sir. Holding course for Site Zero. Don't ask me how."

"How long can we hold out, Captain?"

Pellaeon consulted the navigational data before him. It did not make for happy reading. "At the portal's current strength, sir…we'll pass through the event horizon in less than twelve minutes."

Thrawn actually smiled. "It appears, my feelings notwithstanding, that I may well get to experience time travel after all, Captain."

"Unless Vader and Skywalker can shut it down in time."

"We had better hope they can," Thrawn said grimly. "Short of their mission being a success, Captain, nothing else can stop us."

---------------------------------------------------------

With their trademark flawless synchronicity, the twelve X-Wings comprising Rogue Squadron dropped from hyperspace…and straight into the craziest scene Wedge Antilles had ever set eyes upon.

He shook it off. Their mission was the same, no matter what light shows were going on. "All right, Rogues," he said, determination giving a steel edge to his words, "this is it. You know the drill. Trench Run. Three ships to each run, rest of us providing cover."

The chorus of _copy Rogue Leader _came back loud and clear. Wedge and his wingmates swooped down toward that artificial surface even as turbolaser fire began to strafe up at them. His eyes narrowed.

"Let's take this bastard down," he said.


	45. All Secrets Revealed

Galaxies Apart

Forty Four

YOU WILL KILL DARTH VADER.

The lightsaber slipped into him so easily and quickly that the first notion the others had that Mara Jade had done it, finally obeyed Palpatine's last command, was the green blade emerging from Vader's central chestplate.

By then, it was too late.

"NOOO!" Ben Skywalker screamed, as Vader toppled to the floor below.

Ben's own saber was ignited an instant later. Face contorted with hatred and a lust for instant revenge, he leapt into Mara Jade, his blade sweeping around in a decapitating swing she could never hope to parry.

---------------------------------------------------------

_Two hours earlier_

---------------------------------------------------------

"Warning," that maddeningly calm computer voice spoke up once again, "temporal disturbances appearing in immediate vicinity. Time displacement effects may be experienced within station interior."

No-one was particularly taking that in. No-one was doing much of anything, including breathing. They had just watched a Death Star's superlaser blast impact them dead centre…and yet…

"We're alive," Luke whispered, and then, as his words penetrated even to himself, "we're _alive_?"

"You don't hear me complaining," Han said. He was leaning against the nearest command console for support, his heart thumping so loud in his chest he was convinced that was what the Imperials had been able to lock onto.

"How? How in the worlds?"

"The station absorbed the blast," Jacen said slowly. "It must have redirected it someh…" he felt his mouth go dry as he glanced upward, "…look!"

The holo above their heads displayed the greatly enlarged portal and, slowly but surely moving toward it, the massive bulk of the Death Star.

Only now did everyone seem to realise that with all the certain death they'd been convinced they were facing, the various weapons they had pointed at each other were still primed and ready. Despite this realisation, none of the weapons were lowered.

"Oh come _on_," Han threw up his hands in disgust at seeing this. "Didn't we just leave this party?"

"Nothing's changed," Jacen replied coolly.

"Oh, really?" Han said, sarcasm fairly dripping from every word. "That's weird. I could have sworn we're looking at going from us going back in time to save the galaxy to an Imperial Death Star travelling back in time to blow the timeline and any hope of the Rebel Alliance _ever _resurrecting itself all to hell. Or did I miss something?"

Luke lowered his saber, deactivating its blade with a flick of his finger. "He's right," he told Jacen. "Situation's changed. We have to stop the Death Star from going through that portal."

After a second's hesitation, Jacen's blade _swooosshed _back into nothingness also. Chewie and Mara likewise lowered their weapons. There was a look that passed between the human and the Wookiee that suggested this would not soon be forgotten.

Jacen raced to the main console, spinning dials. They saw immediately that something was wrong. "I can't get the station to resize the portal," he said, looking worried, "that superlaser blast dumped trillions of joules of energy into its systems. Pumping it into that portal out there was the only thing that kept us from disintegrating. If I stop it or make it smaller…boom."

He was holding something back. Luke reflected without much satisfaction that he was getting to be something of an expert in detecting that. "What else?"

Jacen licked his lips. "Even with the portal draining the excess power…there's still way too much energy being conducted through the systems. This whole place is gonna come apart sooner or later…probably sooner."

Han grabbed his tool bag and nodded to Chewie, who slung his bowcaster. "Well it's been educational, but it sounds like it's time to skedaddle, ladies and gentlemen," he said briskly.

"If the station is going under, this will be our only chance!" Jacen said desperately. "We're not going to get another shot at this!"

"We don't need another shot," Han replied calmly. "We need to be the only ones who go through that portal."

He nodded to the holo of the Death Star with a casualness he didn't even come close to feeling. "And that means removing the competition before it gets there."

"Take out a Death Star? In _two ships_?" Jacen asked incredulously.

"Got a better idea?" Han countered immediately, raising his eyebrows at his son. When no response was forthcoming, he spread his hands in triumph. "Didn't think so. So let's go. Hangar bay, _now_. All of us. Goldenrod, you gonna keep up?"

"Master Solo, I am a protocol droid, not an athlete! I could not possibly-!"

"Fair enough," Han said equitably. "Chewie?"

"What are you doi_-aaagh! Unhand me you hairy oaf!_" Threepio squawked indignantly as Chewie scooped him up and cast him over his shoulder effortlessly, as if the droid were a robotic damsel in distress. The ceaseless complaints about this being an outrage were soon silenced with a dextrous flick of a finger to the 'off' switch on Threepio's upper back.

While the others hurriedly packed their meagre belongings in preparation for the trip back, Luke approached Jacen once more.

"That portal isn't pointed at five years ago anymore, is it?" he asked quietly.

"No."

"Let me guess. You can't change it."

"Right," Jacen agreed, throwing his backpack containing his sleeping mat over his shoulder. His saber hilt was still hanging by his side. He met Luke's accusing gaze with not a waver. Clearly Luke didn't believe a word of it, but just as clearly Luke hadn't a hope of gaining the technical know-how with the control consoles to prove anything in the time they had remaining.

"This isn't over," Luke promised him, as they gathered the last of the equipment.

"No," Jacen agreed, sadness suddenly evident in his voice. "But it's getting close to the end. Can't you feel it?"

Casting one last look at the wonders of the control room they'd called home these last few days, Jacen turned on his heels and began to jog in the direction of the hangar bay.

Luke followed, the others alongside him, wishing fervently that he didn't share Jacen's feeling. The end was coming, in one shape or another, and he was sure of only one thing: that not everyone among them would be there to see it.

---------------------------------------------------------

_90 minutes later_

---------------------------------------------------------

"A ship…" Luke panted. "There's a ship…docking…"

They had been running for some time. Chewie was in the lead, his long and measured Wookiee strides eating up the distance, his breathing measured and controlled. He looked as if he could keep this up all day.

Luke and Jacen were next. Luke had kept himself in excellent shape these past five years and was satisfied with his fitness, but he knew that without the Force to assist him he would be struggling. By contrast, Jacen seemed to be enjoying the exertion.

_Trying to show how good you are? _Luke wondered. _Trying to make me think twice about pulling a saber on you again, is that it?_

Han, Mara and Artoo were bringing up the rear. Artoo would never have been able to keep up had the terrain been anything but polished metal; as it was, he had simply utilised his twin manoeuvring thrusters to propel him along, rotating them ninety degrees so they were horizontal. They weren't massively powerful, but they provided enough speed for him to keep up without problems. Luke spared a moment to wonder why Artoo didn't seem to use them for vertical flight as some astromechs did.

Han and Mara were feeling the pace, undoubtedly, but both were receiving assistance they did not even realise was there. Luke had attempted to reach out to Han's mind and body some time ago to boost his stamina and relieve some of his fatigue, only to find a Force presence already occupying that position – Jacen's. Content to allow the son to help his father, Luke switched his full attention to Mara. He could do the same for her…but being Force sensitive, the option to assist without her even realising it did not exist the way it did with Han.

He sensed her pride and her independence flare up instantly at his gentle inquiry, as he made his intentions plain to her. He expected her to recoil and rebuff his offer, but after a moment where she seemed to weigh up her options, he was surprised to find her stepping aside mentally, allowing him some small measure of access to do what he needed to do in order to aid her.

_Thank you_, he said silently, as her pace quickened and her breathing eased.

In this way they had covered the considerable distance between the control room and the hangar bay in remarkable time. Having travelled this route only a short time ago, Luke recognised the final few twists in the corridor that signalled the end of their journey…and when he did, he and the others had heard the unmistakable sound of retro rockets firing.

"It's the Empire…" Han replied, gasping for air, but somehow managing to increase his pace even as he unholstered his blaster, "…gotta be. They'll cut off our escape route. We have to…get there."

Less than a minute later, the entire group finally came to a halt in the hangar bay. As Han had feared, an Imperial shuttle was just coming to rest on the deck, its twin ventral fins completing their switch to dorsal positions.

"Get ready!" Han shouted, taking aim at where the entry ramp would soon open. Chewie stood with him, his bowcaster at the ready. "Here they come!"

"He's here…" Jacen murmured. Luke felt his young companion's Force presence ratchet up in intensity to a massive degree. Puzzled and curious, Luke extended his mind questioningly into the shuttle's interior, intending to discover how many stormtroopers were-

_Luke._

His mind recoiled in surprise.

_I've waited so long for this._

Two Force presences? Two Jedi? And one of those presences…Luke took an involuntary step back and his fingers found his lightsaber reflexively…one of them contained the blackest hatred he had ever felt in a living being.

Hatred directed squarely at him.

The ramp descended, and the shuttle doors hissedopen.

"Now!" Han shouted, squeezing off a few covering shots with his blaster as Chewie did the same with his bowcaster, the bolts peppering the entranceway to the shuttle-

-at least, that was what both had intended.

What happened instead was that Han's blaster and Chewie's bowcaster both leapt from their grasp, flung far across the hangar bay floor, hopelessly out of reach.

"What the hell!"

"I'm sorry, father."

Han turned to Jacen, not believing what he had just heard. "_You_ did that? Why?"

"Because this isn't your fight," Jacen replied.

Two figures dropped from the shuttle, no more than fifteen feet from them.

Ripples of shock went through all assembled. The nightmarish visage of Darth Vader was known and feared throughout the galaxy, of course, but it was his companion that caused Han, Chewie, Mara, even Artoo, most astonishment.

The _snap-hiss _of Luke and Jacen's lightsabers flaring into life was simultaneous.

"You…" Luke hissed at Vader.

"_You_," Jacen hissed at Ben.

"Son," Vader returned.

"Nephew," Ben returned.

Han felt an all-too-familiar sensation of his head spinning. He could have sworn, for one crazy minute, that he had heard Darth Vader call Luke Skywalker-

"_What_ did you call me?" Luke choked, advancing on the Dark Lord, his saber drawn. "_What_ did you say?"

"I called you son," Vader replied. He made no attempt to move, to draw a weapon of his own. He did not even seem to possess a lightsaber.

"You _killed_ my father."

"No," Vader said it as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "I am your father."

"It's true," the doppelganger of Luke said, stepping between the advancing Luke and Vader as if to block off the attack that was surely forthcoming.

"And just who are _you_ meant to be?"

"Your clone."

"My _clone_?" Luke's mouth twisted in a savage smile. "Is this meant to be some kind of delaying tactic? Some sick joke? Is this the best the Empire can come up with? You even called him _nephew_," he continued, indicating Jacen, who stood silently, saying nothing. "How is that possible?"

The other Luke smiled. It was not out of kindness. "Because she was your sister."

Luke seemed to stop, for just a second, before shrugging it off with a laugh that sounded somewhat less sure of itself. "So let me recap here. Darth Vader is my father. Leia was my sister. And I have a clone. Who's my mother? Chewie?"

"Search your feelings. Ask the Force. Learn the truth," Vader spoke up.

"I don't have to!" Luke snarled back, again gesturing at Jacen. "He's from the future! Do you honestly think he wouldn't have _told_ me if any of this were true?!"

And there it was. The moment when Luke Skywalker's entire universe turned upside down. Han Solo felt it, as clearly as if he had been a Jedi himself. Saw it in Luke's entire body. And in that moment, despite the presence of the most feared man in the galaxy only a few feet away, Han Solo found himself fearing for Jacen for one simple reason.

Luke Skywalker was going to murder him.

Luke turned to face Jacen, his blade turning with him. Jacen was still silent. Luke took a step toward him, and another. His hands were shaking, Han saw. The blood had drained from his face.

"So tell me," Luke said, too quietly. "Tell me it isn't true, Jacen."

"I'm sorry, Luke," was his reply. "I wanted to tell you. I really did. I begged Master Yoda to allow me to tell you, but he wanted to-"

That was as far as he got.

As Luke hurled himself at him, shouting incoherently, Jacen was forced to back-pedal frantically, his saber flashing this way and that. Luke's blade seared and soared through the air, a humming, glowing ribbon of vengeance hellbent on burying itself in Jacen Solo's body and extinguishing his life forever.

"_You lying, cheating, little bastard!_" Luke was screaming, tears of anger streaming down his face, sheer fury fuelling his attack as he drove Jacen back. Jacen was surviving, but only just.

Han's blaster was still more than a hundred feet away across the deck, sent there by Jacen himself. Han saw Chewie tense his immense Wookiee frame, ready to launch himself at Luke. His mouth framed a desperate cry of _no_, for despite his terror at the danger to his son's life he knew with a terrible certainty that in his single-minded determination to murder his opponent Luke would surely slice the Wookiee in two without a second thought.

Rescue came from the least likely source Han could have imagined.

"_Enough_," Vader intoned.

He extended his gloved hands toward the combatants. Taken by surprise, Luke and Jacen found their lightsabers ripped from their grasp. Both whipped through the air and landed in Vader's grip, deactivating themselves along the way. He clipped them securely to the belt that formed part of his suit.

Red-faced with anger and exertion, Luke was not about to let a little thing like being disarmed distract him from the task at hand. He launched himself physically at Jacen, fully intent on getting his hands around his throat…except he never got there. His body simply paused in mid-flight, his outstretched hands flailing at nothing, before like a puppet with its strings cut he promptly crashed to the floor.

When he got to his feet, Vader was standing before him. Luke's white-hot rage finally deflected itself to a new target.

"Get the hell away from me," he snarled.

"You need time," Vader told him. "Unfortunately…ironically…that may be one thing we do not have."

"Luke…" Jacen tried again.

YOU WILL KILL DARTH VADER.

Mara, until now performing her customary role of stepping back and scanning events unfolding with a keen eye for spotting when danger was threatening to come her way, pressed her fingers to her forehead. The command had been resurfacing in her subconscious since the Emperor ripped himself from her body. She had hoped Palpatine's death would have stopped the words from spiking through her mind – if anything, they had gotten stronger.

No-one noticed her discomfort.

YOU WILL KILL DARTH VADER.

_I am not your slave_, she forced herself to respond. Her words sounded weak and distant next to the towering presence of the Emperor. He was laughing at her. He found her pretence of free will amusing. _He always had._

Luke and…the other Luke…were shouting at one another now. The words reached her ears, but not her brain; they were swallowed by those five all-encompassing words repeating over and over, over and over, over and over and over and over and over and over-

Han had edged over to Chewie. He spoke to his partner in a low voice. Chewie growled a reply. Han spoke two words. With a final, reluctant growl, Chewie backed off from the scene unfolding before him, towards the _Millennium Falcon_.

YOU

"No!" she said.

WILL

"No," she repeated.

KILL

"No…" she begged.

DARTH

"Please, no…" there were tears in her eyes, mocking laughter in her mind.

VADER

She was trained to be invisible. Her Force powers were weak compared to those she shared this hangar bay with, but in one area – blending to the background – she could hold her own. It was this talent she used now, calling the Force to her, extending her hand.

One of the lightsabers clipped to Vader's belt was in her grasp a second later. The Dark Lord of the Sith, one of the most powerful men the galaxy had ever known…never noticed.

"_You _did this?"

"He did this," Jacen confirmed. He was standing alongside Luke now, facing Vader and Ben. "He destroyed everything. He's the reason for all of this. For Leia's death. For Jaina's. For Yavin IV."

"Why?"

"Because I hated you," Ben told him, defiantly. "All of you. I hated your perfect lives and your heroic deeds. I despised the New Republic and all it stood for. I wanted to spare the galaxy from its weakness."

"Enough," Vader said again.

"Who are you to tell me to-"

"I am your father," Vader reminded him. "I will not allow you to bait yourself into a fight you will deliberately lose."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you want to die," Vader told him, as if it were the most plainly obvious fact in all the galaxy.

"I can help him with that," Jacen promised.

"Revenge is not a Jedi concept, is it, nephew?"

Jacen shrugged. "This entire timeline is about to be overwritten like it never happened. A little bit of revenge on a monster like him won't even matter."

"And what of me?" Vader asked.

"_You_?" Luke spat. "You're the biggest monster of all!"

"No…" Jacen turned to Luke, "…Luke, you don't understand. Darth…Anakin…grandfather…he came through for you. As things were meant to have happened. He turned on Palpatine – killed him. For you. To save you."

"It's true," Ben said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

"If I can do that," Vader went on, "how can you be so certain that Ben is a monster?"

"This is crazy!" Luke burst out. "All of this! It's crazy! I can't deal with this – any of it!" he pointed a finger at Vader, "You should never have come here! You were my hero my entire life! My dead, heroic pilot father! You should have _stayed_ dead-"

It was at that moment that the green blade spurted forth, slicing clean through Vader's chestplate like it didn't exist.

"NOOO!" Ben Skywalker screamed.

Vader stood transfixed for a moment, before the blade was removed and he crumpled to the deck. Smoke was already rising up from the scorched electronics burning through the huge hole straight through his body.

Mara Jade, her entire body trembling, was left standing holding the lightsaber.

Ben's own saber was ignited an instant later, freeing itself from Vader's belt and finding its way to his hand. Face contorted with hatred and a lust for instant revenge, he leapt into Mara Jade, his blade sweeping around in a decapitating swing she could never hope to parry-

She didn't have to.

In tune with the Force, Luke had sensed Ben's intent. He _pushed _Mara with his mind, sending her sprawling out of range of the murderous swipe. Even as she tumbled, Luke was reaching out, plucking his own lightsaber from her hand and returning it to his own…just in time to block the first of Ben's attacks.

"She…killed…my…father," Ben said, each word accompanied by violent lunges with his saber and with the Dark Side of the Force as his emotions raged unchecked. "I want her…_dead_."

"Han! Get her out of here!" Luke called, trying everything he had to stop Ben's advance. His clone had a good twenty years experience over him and was using every bit of that advantage to press Luke into retreat.

Han dragged Mara to her feet and began leading her to the _Millennium Falcon_. At Han's urging, Chewie had already reached the ship a few moments before; the roar of the sublight engines start-up sequence ripped through the hangar bay.

He was surprised to find Jacen helping him with Mara. Looking back to the battle raging between Luke and…well, the other Luke, Han was horrified by how easy it was to tell the two apart now; you simply had to figure out which one was winning the duel, and winning easily by the looks of it.

"Aren't you going to help him?!" he shouted to his son, over the roar of the _Falcon's _engines.

Jacen's eyes were conflicted, he saw, but his son shook his head. "He wants to stop us, Dad!" he said. "We don't have time! The galaxy depends on it!"

"But he's going to die!" Han protested, his instincts telling him this was wrong.

"We _all_ will if we don't get out of here!"

With a roar of anger from behind them, Ben lifted his progenitor into the air using the Force and flung him viciously aside like a ragdoll. Han, Jacen and Mara were almost at the _Falcon's _entranceway now. Han's eyes widened as he saw Ben gather himself to make one of those crazy Jedi leaps-

-blaster bolts peppered where he stood. Chewie, good old Chewie, was using the _Falcon's _underside blaster. Somehow Ben was able to spin that damned saber of his quickly enough to deflect every single bolt that went his way, but by then they had reached the ramp. Sanctuary was only seconds away.

"_Die_," Ben rasped.

He twisted his lightsaber around and deflected a blaster bolt. Han and Jacen had time only to watch as it rebounded from the blade and with deadly accuracy struck Mara Jade between the shoulder blades. She went limp in their arms. Han dropped to his knees, trying to get her to stand.

"Leave her!" Jacen was screaming. "She's gone! Leave her! We have to go! NOW!"

"We have to-" Han tried to respond, but a touch from Jacen to his forehead made his vision blur, his arms and legs turn to jelly. His son was able to heave Mara Jade aside and drag his father the rest of the way into the _Falcon's _interior.

"Chewie, get us outta here!" Jacen hollered. Ben Skywalker was charging for the _Falcon_ at full speed, closing the distance with terrifying ease. He sprang into the air, leaping for the still-open entranceway before it closed-

"Stay here and _burn_," Jacen told him.

Blue lightning shot from his fingertips, catching his uncle's clone on the chest, reversing his momentum and throwing him back to the deck of the hangar bay. Seconds later, the _Falcon _had risen into the air, its thrusters firing into life. Before Ben could pick himself up, it was gone through the magnetic field and into space.

A shadow fell across him.

"Remember me?" Luke Skywalker said brightly, and kicked him. Hard. Ben doubled over in pain.

"Get up," Luke said, backing off. Ben did so. They circled each other.

"Your _friends_ left you behind," Ben observed. "To die, here. Alone."

"You destroyed my life. Stole my destiny. Murdered my sister. Killed Mara Jade."

"She killed my father."

"_Your _father?" Luke smiled. "He may have been mine, fine; I'll accept that. But yours? How can a freak like you even _have_ a father?"

"I'm going to enjoy killing you all over again," Ben promised him.

Sabers flashing, they came together for the final battle.


	46. A New Hope

Galaxies Apart

Forty Five

"What are you thinking about?"

Her voice was lazy. He grinned. It was a lazy kinda day, so that was just fine. He draped the back of his fingernails over her lower back and watched her squirm beneath him. "Nothing," he replied.

She turned over, hands snaking out and grabbing his to prevent the tickling from moving on to pastures new. He saw the contentment in her eyes to simply have the chance to exist in this type of moment and wondered if she saw the same emotion reflected in his.

"Liar. You know I can read your mind."

"And here I thought _I _was the Jedi," he said wryly, and descended his lips to hers. She tasted like every victory he'd ever had, every smile that had ever crossed his face. Every time they kissed he found himself lost in wonderment that his life, his strange, eventful life, could have taken the necessary turns required to have brought them together; and he gave silent thanks that it had.

As a Padawan he had heard the whispers; that he had no biological father, that the midichlorians themselves had conspired to place him and give him life inside his mother. More than anyone else who had ever lived, he was meant to embody the Force itself and all it meant to those who answered its call; the sense of security, peace, fulfilment, and above all a purpose and a calling greater than any other.

Beneath him, here and now, was a woman who embodied all of those things. Padme _was _the Force to him. She was his whole life. His connection to something greater.

And yet…

She broke the kiss. "There it is again," she said ruefully. "What is it, Ani?"

He rolled, propping himself up on his elbow. Padme did the same, facing him. Behind her, Coruscant's infinite cityscape teemed with its life. One of the wonders of the universe, its likeness unequalled anywhere; to him, next to her, it paled into a distant second.

"We should be able to…to go outside, to tell our friends," he said, frustrated.

She smiled briefly, but the smile was tinged with shared pain. "I know," she said gently. "I feel that, too."

"How can something that makes us both happy be wrong?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "I don't pretend to understand the ways of the Jedi," she said simply. "You have a power I don't understand…and could never have."

"I would give up that power," he told her then, all trace of lightness falling away from him. "For you. For us."

"What?" she blinked, confused. "Ani, what are you saying…?"

"If there was a way," he continued, the words coming out in a rush now, "if I could _stop _being a Jedi, somehow…we wouldn't have to keep us a secret."

She laughed, lightly. He scowled at this. "And what would you do then?" she asked him, bemused at the very notion. "Being a Jedi is all you know, Ani. All you've wanted to be for as long as I've known you."

"It's not the only thing I've wanted for as long as you've known me," he told her.

She kissed him impulsively, her hands pressed against his head, dragging him close to her. He returned it fiercely, hungrily, even as the sunlight streamed in from the dizzyingly high Coruscant window and half a billion people whizzed by in transports; none of them, he knew, would know a moment like this, a love like his.

"I wouldn't let you," she whispered, when they had separated again. "I wouldn't ask you to do that."

"I-" he began, but her finger was pressed to his lips, requesting him to be silent so she could finish. He complied with her wish.

"But it means more than you know to me that you would be prepared to do that…" she glanced out at Coruscant, allowing worry to cloud her face, "…soon you'll be back out there, fighting this war…promise me, Ani, that you'll always come home to me and find time for mornings like this one. Promise me you'll always know what to say to me to remind me why I love you as much as I do."

He reached up for her fingers, still pressed to his lips, and held them gently in his hand. He kissed them, and nodded. "I promise."

They were kissing again after that, and this time they did not break apart; rather, more of their bodies intertwined on the bed until they became one mind, one body, one soul-

"Enough," Vader said.

His long shadow fell across the bed where Anakin Skywalker and Padme were making love. Their bodies froze in mid-coitus, a bead of sweat suspended perfectly mid-fall between them.

"Show me no more," Vader addressed the room. "I am tired of watching."

_very well_

The room, Coruscant, and his younger self all vanished into the formless ether he had found himself in (moments? months? years?) since the sensation of the lightsaber blade burning through him...

_you were prepared to give it up for her_

"I did," Vader said, a world of hurt in his voice. "Just not in the way I imagined."

_would you like to see something different_

"I would like to be left alone."

_watch and you will understand_

In the absence of any other choice, Darth Vader did exactly that.

---------------------------------------------------------

It began in the future, in a far-distant region of the universe.

They had evolved for fifty million years. After merely two of those fifty, they had burst forth from their home planet as a fabulously advanced race, unequalled in their native galaxy in art, literature, technology…

..and in ambition.

Spreading throughout the galaxy, they subjugated other races through force of personality or simply through force until none could stand against their mastery of the majority of habitable worlds available to them.

But with this strength, came maturity. With nowhere left to expand outward toward, finally this great species looked inward and began to change themselves, eventually evolving into something beyond their physical forms, tapping into long-dormant potential within themselves for telepathic and telekinetic abilities.

With this evolution of the species came a slow but wondrous collective awakening, an enlightenment. The ways of authority were replaced with democracy, and the galaxy they had once ruled unquestioned flourished under their stewardship, other races welcomed and treated as equals, peace embraced, conflict utilised rarely but always with terrible swiftness and lingering regret.

For many millions of years, this golden age persisted. Until something occurred which not even this mighty race could prevent; their home galaxy collided with another.

As the star systems of the galaxies collided, the effect was catastrophic. Stars were torn apart; massive asteroid belts ploughed through orbital planes, devastating world upon world. A rescue bid to save both galaxies was launched, stretching the race thin across space.

They did not expect the attack.

Enemy races, long jealous of their power, had secretly banded together and chose this moment to seize power. Using technology shared with them in the spirit of friendship, they obliterated the species' satellite worlds one by one, hounding them relentlessly, never affording them the chance to settle down on a new world or form a coherent defence.

Finally, their ancient homeworld fell, pulverized to oblivion, its many inhabitants dying screaming, a futile distress call of pain and loss that reached every single member of the race left in the stars.

Faced with extinction at every turn, the leaders of the surviving members of the species, now spaceborne nomads numbering less than thirty billion on a vast flotilla of refugee vessels, took a series of staggering risks to try and ensure the continuation of the race. They reactivated areas of research that had been closed off for many millions of years.

Racing against time suddenly short, they created a method of harnessing and focussing zero-point quantum energy to tunnel through space itself, in order to link together co-ordinates using a fold in the fabric of the universe – a wormhole. In this way, they hoped to open a doorway to another galaxy altogether and to start their civilisation anew. It was their last hope.

One problem remained. The power levels to generate even a single wormhole were staggering. To create a wormhole large enough for every ship to pass through would have been impossible, particularly with their enemies closing in from all sides. The solution was radical, desperate.

If the wormhole was too small for their physical bodies to pass through, then they would have to be left behind.

Linking themselves telepathically together, as well as to their most advanced technologies, the entire race shed their link to their physical existence, becoming life-forms composed of pure energy and thought, contained by their own sentient coherence rather than by flesh, bone and blood.

They were glorious, luminous beings.

Attaching themselves to a single colony ship in this state was possible. A few members of their species had made the sacrifice of remaining in physical form so they could be relied upon to oversee the creation of the wormhole and to target its destination. The enemy fleet arrived just as that single colony ship passed through the shimmering curtain…and vanished.

The physical members of the race were killed trying to activate the self-destruct sequence on the facility responsible for the wormhole's creation. Before they died, however, they managed to send the facility itself through its own portal, collapsing the wormhole at that end and preventing their enemies from following. This done, they succumbed to death in triumph.

Their joy was unfounded.

The gateway was spectacularly off-target. Far from the planned location, a galaxy relatively close by their own, the species was being transported out of all known space. In all probability their fate would be to be deposited randomly in the universe, left to rot in the void, stranded in the desert of the universe, left to gaze upon decayed star light already billions of years old.

But that was not the only shock which awaited them.

Not only were they hopelessly overshooting their intended spatial location, they were travelling through _time_. The collective consciousness of the species sensed the universe rewinding itself; supernovae reversing, black holes spewing matter into the cosmos, stars winking out, solar systems coalescing to accretion disks. All in a heartbeat.

They were now in a universe significantly smaller than the one they had left. The expanding frontiers of the unknown were contracting; incredibly, they were in danger of being deposited outside of existence itself.

Eventually – they had no way of measuring how long – the wormhole spat them out. And that single colony ship, filled with the sole remaining remnants of one of the universe's most powerful and most remarkable species found itself drifting through foreign stars alone, possibly more alone than any ship had ever been.

The Chlorians were stranded. Hopelessly, irreversibly stranded.

A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.

---------------------------------------------------------

Vader realised that what he was suspended in was not the shapeless ether of the afterlife.

"Chlorians…?" he breathed. "You're _midichlorians_?"

_they are what we became_

"I don't understand."

_we could not function physically – had to learn how to survive in vacuum – stopped being separate beings – joined_

As before, images flashed through his mind. The colony ship had sufficed to transport them through the ravages of the wormhole, and for a while they had stayed there, afraid of this new home, unsure of their abilities.

But when the facility – Site Zero – had appeared through the wormhole instants before the gateway had closed, that great energy cloud of sentience had diffused itself through the colony ship and survived the short trip through space to reach the station.

_spread ourselves through this galaxy – so small, so far apart that we changed_

He saw it. Instinctually seeking other life, they had expanded outward in all directions, and over the next few million years had eventually spread their immense single consciousness until it had penetrated every corner of the galaxy. So far apart, they had shrank to occupy the microscopic world, and yet each piece of that great benevolent intelligence remained irretrievably connected to every other piece.

_we bonded with life_

"And remade some of us in your own image. Granted us the powers you possessed as physical beings."

_yes_

Vader finally asked the question he had wanted to ask his entire life.

"Why did you create me?"

_it was necessary_

"For what purpose?"

A ripple of what he guessed to be surprise went through the formless ether as he asked the question, although for one moment he thought it might just have been amusement…or sadness…it was hard to tell. He felt like a speck of dust next to the biggest life-form in existence; which was, essentially, accurate…and yet, he felt somehow a _part _of this huge collective.

_for now_

"But…" he gestured with a hand-

A _hand_?

He looked down at himself for the first time in a long time, and a small involuntary cry of emotion left his lips. He felt it ripple outward into that massive presence and to his wonder, felt it reverberate throughout and an answering tendril of support and love extend itself back to him.

Tears filled his eyes.

_you will have no need of it to fulfil your destiny_

Anakin Skywalker hung in the void, sporting two fully functional arms and legs. The black suit of Darth Vader had vanished…and along with it, somehow, had the dark stain that wearing it had imparted upon Anakin's soul these last two decades. He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling the minute pull of each strand with awe.

Finally, he found the strength to speak. "Fulfil…my destiny?" he said. "But…aren't I dead?"

_Definitely _amusement this time.

_for the moment, as you would understand the term, perhaps_

"For the _moment_?" he repeated, hope rising within him of a kind he had almost forgotten had existed.

_first you must listen – time is short…_

---------------------------------------------------------

"Coming in, point three seven!"

"Watch your back, Rogue Eight!"

"They're coming in too fast!"

"I'm right with you, Hobie…hang in there!"

Wedge's heart was pounding, his breathing irregular. His radio chattered constantly with back-and-forth rat-a-tat chatter between his wingmates as they wheeled across the Death Star's surface, desperately trying to keep each other alive a few moments longer.

Rogues Four, Five and Six were in the Trench below. The rest, Wedge included, were providing cover and trying to prevent as many TIEs from dropping down into the Trench to pick off the trio of X-Wings.

He had fought the urge to be the first to try. He knew he had the authority to make that call and the rest of them would have fallen into line. But he knew the cold, hard facts, too; the odds of the first three pilots making a successful run, when every single turret and tower in that damn Trench would be intact and firing, were so close to zero it wasn't even worth calculating the difference.

He had to send his weakest three pilots on that first run. Made military sense. Perfect sense. So much blasted good-for-nothing sense that it was practically coming out of his ears and why didn't that make him feel one _single_ _damn_ _bit_ _better_ about ordering three men to their deaths?

"Coming up fast," Rogue Five said again.

"I'm in range…" came the voice of Rogue Six, who had point. Wedge knew the targeting computer would be beginning its seemingly eternal countdown before offering up the optimal firing co-ordinates.

"Wait – can't hold it – they're com-"

"Pull out!"

"Can't shake them!"

Wedge gritted his teeth and blew a TIE fighter to smithereens even as the first death call of one of his Squadron sounded in his ears. It was followed only a few seconds later by two more cries. He saw a brief fireball flare, the flames snuffed out by the vacuum as quickly as the life within had been ended by the flames.

And then, silence.

Another squadron of TIEs were screaming toward them, several amongst their number already barrelling downward toward that Trench, anticipating his next move.

Wedge forced his mouth to move. "Rogues Eight, Rogue Ten, Rogue Eleven…" he said, "…get set up for your attack run."

The first three had at least enjoyed some element of surprise. Eight, Ten and Eleven – he forced his own mind to call them by their numbers, not daring to think of their names – would not. They, too, would more than likely perish. And they knew it.

"Copy, Rogue Leader," was the only response he got from each one.

Wedge turned his X-Wing into attack position for the latest wave of TIEs, and swore again to himself that if it was the last thing he did, he'd bring this Death Star down.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Six minutes to event horizon, Grand Admiral."

"And the X-Wings?" Thrawn demanded.

The tactical officer was having difficulty maintaining his composure. "We…we think it's Rogue Squadron, Grand Admiral. We've destroyed three…" he blinked, looking down at his readouts, "…no, make that six of their ships so far. Six remain."

"Another two waves at the exhaust port," Thrawn concluded. "Unacceptable. Tell those TIE pilots to stop the remaining X-Wings dipping into that Trench at _all _costs. I am including suicide runs in that, Lieutenant. Make that clear."

"Y-yes, sir, Grand Admiral."

"Chamber Master," Thrawn continued without so much as a pause for breath. "I want you to target the station again. Fire when ready."

Pellaeon's eyes bulged. He saw the rest of the bridge crew react with shock also. Words of protest formed in his mouth, but the Chamber Master beat him to it.

"But…" the man gulped, "…but it didn't work – and if it makes that thing out there grow again…"

Thrawn gestured to Rukh. The Noghri was at the Chamber Master's side before the poor man could finish gabbling. Rukh's slender blade appeared between his fingers, poised and ready.

"I gave you an order," Thrawn said, so casually he might have been discussing the weather.

"Commencing ignition, Grand Admiral."

Rukh was back at his master's side almost instantly. Pellaeon, standing to the opposite side of Thrawn, risked a glance at his superior officer. He wasn't surprised to find Thrawn already looking at him.

"It survived one blast, Captain," Thrawn said quietly. "I am willing to gamble that it may not survive another."

"And if it does?"

Thrawn stared out at the ever-increasing spectacle of the portal, now filling the viewscreen before them. It almost looked to be reaching out, hungry to consume them whole.

"We're history," he said.

---------------------------------------------------------

He was losing.

Luke Skywalker had never truly faced his own mortality. He had been in dangerous situations, sure; the past five years hadn't exactly been an extended pleasure cruise of the Tarkellian moons. But he was facing it now, in the shape of the lightsaber blade of his own distorted reflection.

The man who called himself Ben Skywalker was by far the superior duellist. He could do things that Luke could only dream of. At every increasingly desperate thrust Luke threw at him, Ben not only had the answer, he found a way to turn those thrusts into defensive strokes, each one a lifesaver that Luke only just found himself able to make.

But not for much longer. He knew this. As did his opponent.

"The last thing I see in the galaxy I created…" his clone told him, "…will be your death at my hands."

Too busy staying alive, Luke couldn't find the words to disagree, and he wasn't sure that even if he could have he would have had the confidence to do so.

A particularly vicious swing by Ben coupled with a Force push sent Luke sprawling into the wall of the hangar bay. His head impacted, hard; his vision blurred, and he suddenly had the terrifying sensation of Ben plunging himself _into his mind_, attacking him from within as well as with the physical saber from without.

Already struggling to cope, Luke could only manage a weak parry, and when the saber flashed around once more, his grip was found wanting. He saw through eyes dimmed from strain and despair his saber fly from his hand, its blade deactivating automatically as it skidded to a halt hopelessly out of reach.

Ben's free hand flexed and turned, and Luke found himself constricted on all sides, able to do nothing but fall to his knees, helpless as Ben's lips set in a thin line and he raised the saber high above his head in readiness for a killing strike.

"This is the end," Ben told him, and brought the saber down.

The blade was _caught_ an inch from Luke's head. Not blocked with another blade, but caught. By _hand_.

"No," Anakin Skywalker said, wrenching the saber effortlessly from Ben's stunned grasp, his entire body awash in a blue glow. "No, my sons…this is just the beginning."


	47. One In A Million

Galaxies Apart

Forty Six

Wedge was cold.

He'd been cold before, sure. But never like this. This was a cold so fierce, so complete, that it burned his body. He'd done what flight school's '10 situations you hope you're never gonna find yourself in, but…' manual had said to do in these situations: he had burrowed into the snow, packed it around him, his precious signal beacon secreted beneath his clothes to keep it warm and operational.

His life depended on it.

For a few hours, the flaming wreckage of his Speeder had provided warmth. He knew it had probably saved his life; he had ejected not far from his own crash site, but the impact from landing had broken his right leg. He had crawled, bleeding and in agony, over half a mile from his resting place to his Speeder's final berth. But Fest's climate was cruel and swift, and the fire had not lasted long.

And neither would he.

It was a strange death, he reflected, his mind swimming in and out of possessing the capability for clear thinking. Not in one way; despite being surrounded by his faithful Squadron at almost every turn of his combat career over the last three years, he had always suspected that he would die alone. But not like this. He had dreamed of a more significant death. Not the victim of an attack gone wrong, slowly turning to ice in the middle of a snowdrift, unlikely to be found until Fest emerged from its latest glacial epoch.

He thought of Winter. He had met her for the first time not long ago, in a hurried Alliance meeting on some nondescript backwater planet, which seemed to be all the Rebels could hope to achieve these days. She had spoke little during the meeting, as had he; starfighter jocks such as Wedge were there because, after three or four hours of politics and grand speeches, he might actually get a target for his next hit-and-fade mission.

"Rogue Leader?"

Ah. So the hallucinations had come early. Wedge's tired, frozen eyes opened and he eventually made out the silhouette of Jansen, one of the Rogues stationed on Fest. Jansen had begged to be included in the mission itself, but they had only managed to acquire five Speeders, and Jansen hadn't quite made the cut.

It had saved his life.

"You're going to be okay," Jansen told him gently. Wedge felt himself lifted, felt something be pressed to his neck and a soft _hiss _against his skin.

Over the next month, he woke occasionally, and most of the time when he did one of his Squadron would be there, just 'keeping an eye' on their leader. When more of his strength returned, he tried to chase them away, and he usually succeeded; only for another member to have resumed the watch when next his eyes opened.

They hadn't abandoned him. Jansen and the rest, they hadn't given up. They had pulled him from the jaws of death and had brought him back.

---------------------------------------------------------

"I just lost my starboard engine," Jansen's voice sounded, not a little disbelief evident in his tone.

"Rogue Eight, eject!"

And that's when he heard it in Jansen's voice. That change. That difference in tone. "Maybe next time, Rogue Leader," the man who had pulled him from the snow answered him, "I have something else in mind. Been a pleasure."

"Jansen, you eject right now! That is an or-"

_Boom. _

Wedge watched as one of the primary turbolaser cannon turrets at the far end of the Trench was engulfed in flames. Jansen had known the only way to score a direct hit was to stay in his seat until the last possible second, long past the point of safe ejection.

Six of his pilots had entered that Trench. Six were now gone. More and more TIE squadrons were launching with each passing moment, making the already astronomical odds that much more ludicrous. Rogue Squadron laughed at the odds, so the stories went, but Wedge Antilles wasn't laughing.

He wasn't beaten either.

He threw his X-Wing into a steep dive, making straight for the Trench. "All Rogues, follow me," he ordered. "We're going in. _All_ of us."

He saw them swing to accompany him, matching his approach vector, dipping under the wave of TIEs that had been on a direct intercept. The nearest X-Wing to him swung up alongside. "Let's do this, boss," Dack said. His sentiments were echoed by the remaining four pilots.

"Copy that, Rogue Seven," Wedge said, pride at the men he had trained shielding him momentarily from the hopeless grief that had threatened to overwhelm him.

After only a few seconds, they had dipped below the walls of the Trench. Entry from above was only possible at a certain point some way removed from the exhaust port; further up the Trench, the outcroppings were too prominent, too close together, for even the most skilled (or suicidal) X-Wing pilot to have attempted to weave between. In addition, a clean proton torpedo launch required a certain cruising speed to be achieved, which ruled out a simple hover in, hover out manoeuvre.

All of which added up to the most lethal thrill ride Wedge had ever encountered in his years as a pilot.

"Watch our six, Rogue Nine," Wedge advised. Nine was flying backstop in this formation, which screened him from the worst of the turret fire coming straight down their throats…but also made him first port of call for the TIEs that would be-

"They're coming in," Nine broke in, right on cue.

"I see them," Wedge confirmed. His Artoo unit _bleeped _nervously as the tactical readout on his screen told him what he already knew; six TIEs had made the drop to pursue, two banks of three, with the faster, more deadly TIE Interceptor flying point in each trio.

"Engaging evasive. I'll buy you time, Rogue Leader."

"Copy, Rogue Nine," Wedge replied, his mind ticking over their situation and desperately trying to see a way to even the odds. "Rogue Twelve – I want you to shunt all of your auxiliary power through your hyperdrive motivators."

"Sir?" Twelve came back. "That much of a power dump would cause my navicomp to freeze up…"

Wedge hoped fervently the Empire hadn't cracked Rogue Squadron's frequency. "Exactly, Hobie – it's your classic _youm-boosh _trick."

He half-expected Hobie Anders to tell him he was crazy. But he should have known better of a Rogue. "Copy, Rogue Leader. Be seeing you…"

A spark of energy flared in Rogue Twelve's systems. His X-Wing sparked, and Wedge watched as it rose up and out of the Trench. The TIEs closing in from behind didn't deviate their course; they would be under orders to clear the Trench of Rebel ships at all costs.

Nine was as good as his word, but he was running out of evasive patterns. The tactical computers in the chasing TIEs would be analysing his flightpath, searching for a way to predict his movements, and when-

The Interceptor fired, and just like that, Wedge had lost another Rogue.

He watched as the twin ranks of TIEs closed the gap more, this time coming up on Rogues Two and Three, flying in formation together to provide cover for Dack in Rogue Seven and Wedge in Rogue One, flying point.

"Get ready, Rogues," he said tightly.

His computer bleeped for attention. He looked down, blinked in surprise. "I'm in range," he said. A keypress extended the targeting computer visualisation sub-screen, its numbers scrolling downward.

The TIEs were closing. They fired in synchronisation on Rogues Two and Three, who executed a breathtaking display of close-formation evasives, banking, rising and diving over and around each other to avoid the barrage. Wedge knew they couldn't do it forever.

He also knew they wouldn't have to.

The rightmost TIE of the closest trio exploded. Wedge risked taking his hands off his controls to punch the air with a fist. His screens showed Rogue Twelve re-entering the Trench on a steep vector that would be useless for levelling out to fire a proton torpedo…but was excellent for strafing TIE fighters with laserfire.

Navicomp power overloads were spectacular to witness from the outside, but done correctly and with enough control, they were harmless and reversible. The Imperials had forgotten about Rogue Twelve. Hobie Anders, however, had not forgotten about the Imperials.

The TIE Interceptor banked across and left, gambling that its wingmate would be quick enough off the mark to enable them both to escape. Unfortunately for the Interceptor pilot, his surviving colleague was nowhere near the pilot his wingmates had been. The TIE Fighter and Interceptor collided, each spinning crazily out of control and out of the Trench altogether. Rogue Twelve, at the zenith of his diving approach, had to find a way to-

"Rogue Twelve," Wedge heard Dack shout in warning, "Hobie, the second group is closing in-"

Fireball.

Wedge's jaw set. Sacrifice after sacrifice was being made out here, just as in the Battle of Yavin five years ago. He was damned if they were all going to be in vain. They had four Rogues left, the three remaining Imperials had to close the gap, and he would get his-

His Artoo unit's scream was the first warning he had. The blossoming ball of flame and wreckage blooming from the Trench wall ahead of him was the second.

He jinked his X-Wing to the right as much as he dared, almost scraping the paint from his craft's hull against the rightmost wall; the spouting inferno ahead of him flashed past to his left in an instant and was gone. His mind tried to piece together exactly what he had just seen.

"It's the TIEs above us," Dack said, suddenly sounding every inch a young man and not a fighter pilot. "They're throwing themselves into the Trench. Suicide runs."

Wedge had a sudden flashback to Sluis Van, and to setting that terrible trap to destroy an Imperial Star Destroyer and set their plan to capture the _Alderaan _into motion. He had been trying to justify that action to himself ever since, and had not yet succeeded – might never succeed.

_So how do you like it now? _was the thought that flashed through his mind.

There were no tactics he could advise. No countermeasures. Nothing. The Imperials had abandoned such notions.

"Full throttle!" he hollered, but too late. Far too late.

Behind him, he saw one, two, three TIE fighters, travelling at what looked like maximum sublight velocity, impact on the Trench. The resultant destruction engulfed the second wave of TIEs, their own ships.

As for Rogues Two and Three…they never knew what hit them.

Dack's X-Wing and his own barely escaped the brunt of the blast wave, their ships rocking, almost colliding. Wedge's tactical readouts, redirected by his Artoo unit to display the area above them rather than behind them, showed more TIEs, entire Squadrons of them. All descending at collision speed toward their position.

"Any ideas, Rogue Leader?" Dack said hollowly.

The numbers on Wedge's targeting computer continued to scroll downward. He would watch that countdown until the second he died, but he would never see it reach zero in time. There wasn't enough time.

_Unless-_

"Just one," he said, having to restrain the sudden insane urge to laugh. So they said Rogue Squadron dealt in miracles. He was about to attempt one.

"We're gonna close our S-foils."

Dack could have said many things to that. He could have said _– are you insane? Closing the S-foils not only knocks out our weapons systems until we open them again, it kicks our engines into overdrive. We can't possibly control the X-Wings in these confined spaces at that kind of speed. And how in every kind of hell there is are we supposed to choose the perfect moment to open the foils, fire the torpedo, and get the hell out of here? _

He didn't say any of those things.

He was dead.

Not every ship in that second trio of TIEs had been destroyed in the first suicide run from above. The Interceptor had survived, and with Dack's sensors turned upwards just as Wedge's own had been, the pursuing ship had no trouble in closing the gap and pulverising Dack's X-Wing to debris in a sustained burst of fire.

And Wedge flew, alone. The last survivor of Rogue Squadron. Final hope for the destruction of the Death Star, a squadron of suicidal TIEs seconds from impact from above and an Interceptor behind him with a clear shot.

An image of lying in that snowbank, waiting to die from the cold or the blood loss, flashed across his mind.

_Now this…this is more like it_, he thought, and closed the S-foils.

The X-Wing underneath him jumped forward. This close to a large gravity well like that of the Death Star, the sort of velocity he'd just accelerated to produced too many Gs even for the inertial dampers to compensate for. He was _pushed _back into his seat, his teeth grinding together.

The light of explosions behind him. He hoped Dack's killer had been somewhat irritated to have survived one suicide run only to be obliterated by the second.

Walls closing in, all around him. He had to move…had to move his damn _arms_ to those controls half a galaxy away at the other end of his cockpit…his great big Bantha-like arms, each one a deadweight of Dreadnought proportions…and for a second, he thought he saw an immense green burst of light above him…

He screamed a soundless scream at the strain on every muscle, managing somehow to turn the X-Wing to the left, the right, down to avoid a low bridge, up to meet the rising surface of the Death Star as he had been freed from its gravitational eddy; escape velocity on a narrow scar of a Trench…by the Force, they'd have to listen to him talking about _this one_ back at the officers mess…

A tear, its shape flattened by gravitational pressure, leaked from his eye. His wingmates were gone. The finest pilots in the galaxy. There would be no officers mess. There would be no unconscious ringing around him upon choosing seating arrangements at table. There would be no chasing them away from his bacta tank. Not ever again. He knew this.

There would be no second taste of perfection with Winter. He knew this too.

Wedge's eyes filled with blood as the pressure burst their vessels. He hung to consciousness by a thread, his grip on the throttle and rudder controls slackening fatally. And yet, from a place quite apart from his body, he found a smile, for he knew something else.

There would be no Death Star.

He flicked the control that opened the S-foils. The X-Wing slowed. He lurched forward in his seat, the giant hand that had been slowly crushing his ribcage abruptly lifted. The end of the Trench loomed large, dead ahead. And beneath it, a small thermal exhaust port, right below the main port…

The counter on his targeting computer hit zero.

"One in a million," Wedge whispered, and launched his torpedos.

Dead centre.

He had no time to pull up – had to eject –

Moments later, another fireball lit the surface of the Death Star, as Rogue Squadron's final X-Wing went the way of its fellows.

---------------------------------------------------------

Chewbacca was no stranger to strangeness, but the sight of someone other than Han Solo sitting himself down in the pilot's chair of the _Millennium Falcon _like he owned the ship was hard to take. Jacen faced down his instinctive snarl.

"Han's out cold," he said simply. "We need to get to that portal before it closes, Chewie. Any objections?"

Reluctantly, the Wookiee let the matter drop. The boy may have unquestionably been Han's flesh and blood, but his attitude…there was a cocksureness about him that Han possessed in spades, sure, but with Han it was always coupled with that vulnerability that was so quintessentially Han. With Jacen…that tendency for arrogance seemed increasingly untempered by any trace of humility.

The _Falcon _was exiting Site Zero's hangar bay. Suspicious of strangers or not, Chewie wasn't happy at simply leaving their former companions behind with the Dark Jedi, but even with his tenacious grasp of time-travel, he understood that if they succeeded in getting through that portal, none of this would even matter.

Suddenly, that _if _became a much bigger issue.

"The Death Star is preparing to fire," Jacen announced. Chewie looked at his readouts, confused as to how Jacen could know this, before he realised that Jacen was not reading it from a screen – his eyes were closed. He was sensing it.

Chewie growled. After Yavin IV, he didn't need to be told twice what a Death Star could do with its superlaser. He threw the _Falcon _to full throttle and chose an escape vector to bring them as far away from Site Zero as possible before-

Green points of light joined in a lattice over the circular depression in the northern hemisphere of the massive battlemoon, before joining to form a single beam of awesome destructive power. The beam arced past them, its outer fringes missing the _Falcon _by only a few thousand miles; had Jacen not provided the warning, the ship would have been fried instantly.

As before, the superlaser struck home at the heart of Site Zero. Just like the first time, the station did not demolecularise explosively; rather, it absorbed the blast, its immense energies winking out altogether for a moment.

A long moment.

"Something's wrong," Jacen said, panic evident in his voice. He sprang from the pilot's chair. "The station can't absorb it this time. It's coming apart. It's losing power!"

The enormous discharges of energy that had given Site Zero its living halo of power did not resurface. Without the huge grounding sparks from that energy connecting the portal to the station, the portal was beginning to shrink.

Chewie moved to regain the controls, to try and steer the ship, but before his huge hands could even begin to wrestle with the navicomp controls he felt the _Falcon _lurch forward, springing from its previous heading like a gorged mynock. His flash of puzzlement was even shorter this time – a quick glance over at Jacen's rapt expression of concentration and focus told him all he needed to know.

"It's closing…" Jacen whispered. Whether he was speaking to himself or attempting to explain his actions, Chewie couldn't guess. "We have to make it through…!"

"What's going on?" a weak voice called from the cockpit entrance. Chewie _yowwwlred _in delight to see Han awake and on his feet. Jacen barely seemed to notice. The _Falcon _was closing the distance at an incredible rate, but the portal was shrinking exponentially now, collapsing and folding in on itself faster and faster. A gateway that had been big enough to potentially encompass a Death Star was now smaller in width than a Star Destroyer.

"Jacen…?" Han said again, his voice stronger this time.

"Yes?" Jacen turned his head to answer, but the _Falcon _remained under his command. They had only moments before the portal would cease to exist.

"Where are we going?"

"To make a better galaxy," Jacen replied. He frowned then, and a dark shadow seemed to pass across his face. He fixed his attention behind Han with such intensity that Han could do nothing but turn.

"Hello, Han," a complete stranger, dressed in a Jedi robe and clad in a blue glow from head to foot, inclined his head politely in greeting. Had Han been inclined to glance back out of the cockpit window, he would have seen space around them buckle and warp. They had entered one of the temporal eddies around the portal's perimeter, slowing time to a crawl momentarily.

"Just who the hell are _you_?" Han managed to say.

"My name is Anakin Skywalker."

"You can't stop me, grandfather," Jacen warned.

"Grandfath…?" Han said. He threw his hands up. "I give up."

Anakin only had eyes for Jacen. He nodded, and there was a deep sadness in his eyes as he did so. "I know, grandson," he said gently. "And I'm not here to try. I'm here to tell you that I love you."

Jacen seemed not to know what to say to that – it was almost as if he'd been expecting to have to fight the spectre of the dead man that had appeared before him. With that taken away, he looked lost.

"I…" he began, and then turned to glance out at the vista before them, still mired in the slowness of a temporal distortion, the portal – so much smaller now – still a shimmering beacon, almost within touching distance.

"We're going to make it," he said, almost disbelieving.

"Yes," Anakin nodded.

Tears began to well in Jacen's eyes. "I never thought…" he said, his voice wavering with emotion. "I'm going to fix it, grandfather. For your daughter. For my Mom."

Anakin stepped toward his grandson and embraced him. There were tears in the older man's eyes also as he broke away from the contact. "Don't lose yourself, Jacen," he said. "It's so easily done…believe me, I know only too well. Don't be so concerned with your place in the universe that you forget to take the time to remind those who love you why they love you. Promise me that."

Jacen frowned, puzzled. "Grandfather…?"

"Promise me," Anakin said, more urgently. Blue light spilled through the cockpit now. The portal, now barely big enough to allow the _Millennium Falcon _passage through, not only _seemed_ close enough to touch – it was.

"I promise," Jacen said, and in the blinking on an eye he, his father, Threepio, Chewbacca, and the _Millennium Falcon _passed through that portal to the past – and vanished from the galaxy, a heartbeat before the portal collapsed into nothingness.

But the more-than-a-spectre of Anakin Skywalker remained. Suspended in space, he gazed into the blackness of the void that had just swallowed his grandson.

"Raise me well," he whispered. And he vanished too.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Direct hit on exhaust port! Chain reaction imminent!"

"Sir, we have to get you to your shuttle!"

"Sir, evacuate immediately!"

"Grand Admiral, we have to _move_!"

So deranged with panic was Pellaeon that he considered simply leaning forward and shaking Thrawn from the stupor he had slipped into. But the Grand Admiral's attention was fixed on the viewscreen displaying the portal.

"Too late, Captain," he said softly.

Pellaeon saw the ship make it through the instant before the portal vanished. Successfully traversing time, undoubtedly to some point in the past, where they would proceed to rewrite history to their own making.

"We lose," Thrawn sighed, and prepared himself for the onrush of oblivion.

---------------------------------------------------------

Oblivion did not come.

---------------------------------------------------------

The Death Star did not explode.

---------------------------------------------------------

"We're…we're alive," Pellaeon said, cherishing each new word his lips had the ability to make. "We're still here," he went on, growing in confidence that he was not about to vanish into an explosive cloud or fade into nothingness with each heartbeat.

He had never seen Grand Admiral Thrawn lost for words. He saw it now.

"I…don't understand," Thrawn admitted. He looked lost. "Nothing has changed. What happened to that direct hit on our exhaust port?"

The Chamber Master, his face ashen, looked up from his post. "No question of it, Grand Admiral. Direct hits, released into our reaction chamber. I saw the readouts. But…no chain reaction. No detonation."

Silence reigned on the bridge. Pellaeon couldn't quite absorb how lost for words Grand Admiral Thrawn was. The man seemed quite overcome, indecisive even. He walked a little closer to his CO and lowered his voice.

"Sir," he said, "suggest we move the ship to a safe distance…and then," he nodded to Site Zero on the viewscreen above, "we blow that _thing_ out there from the skies once and for all."

Thrawn's glowing red eyes, so formidable to face, turned up to regard Pellaeon with such gratitude and warmth that Pellaeon felt himself redden a little. "I won't forget this…_Admiral_ Pellaeon," Thrawn told him, equally quietly.

Allowing Pellaeon to absorb that for a moment, Thrawn was Thrawn again. "Helm, bring us around! Distance of four million miles! Chamber Master, once we're there, commence primary ignition!"

A chorus of affirmations rang out. Thrawn settled back in his chair and smiled the first truly genuine smile Pellaeon had seen the man produce.

"Let's finish it," he said.


	48. Final Farewell

Galaxies Apart

Forty Seven

"Just who the hell are _you_?"

The newcomer smiled. "I get that a lot lately," he replied.

Luke got to his feet, control of his body now returned; Ben's stranglehold over him had vanished the moment his apparent saviour had arrived. Luke regarded him with confusion – he shimmered with an inner light from head to toe, wearing the robe of a Jedi, and wore it well. Obi-Wan had worn such a robe, but this was not he; this was a younger man, with hauntingly familiar eyes…

My _sons_-

"Father?" Ben said, anger at his thwarted attack turning to disbelief turning to joy on his face. He stepped forward and embraced the man warmly. "I thought I'd lost you…how did you-?"

Breaking the embrace, he turned to gesture at the spot where Darth Vader had pitched forward, a smoking hole through his torso.

The corpse was still there.

He read their minds. "The suit is there," he admitted. "The electronics…the machinery that kept me alive…all still there. But everything that was once Anakin Skywalker," and he looked directly at Luke when he said those words, that name, before tapping his chest, "is here. I have been sent back."

The lightsaber Ben had been using, that which had come within a fraction of separating Luke's head from his shoulders, lifted from the deck and flew to Anakin's outstretched left hand. Luke's own saber dropped into the other hand a second later. Anakin regarded them and shifted his attention to Luke and Ben, sadness in his eyes. "And not a moment too soon," he added softly.

"You're Vader?"

"Weren't you _listening_?" Ben snapped. "Didn't you hear anything he just said?"

"Don't speak to me, murderer."

"Weakling!" and Ben started forward, his hands automatically balling into fists, his mind reaching out for the Dark Side-

"_ENOUGH!_"

Both found themselves unable to move. No undue pressure was being applied to either; they were not in pain of any kind, but the ability to move had been completely removed from their capabilities.

Anakin addressed Luke directly. "I _am_ Darth Vader," he admitted. "Or rather…I am Vader as he should have been. The year you were born, Luke, I made a mistake. One I relived countless times wearing that suit. I'd choose differently every time I did so, but it was gone. And so was I. I – I allowed myself to be consumed by the Dark Side. Not for love. Not for self-sacrifice. Not for your mother. For fear."

Luke didn't know what to say, how to react. His entire life he had idolised his father, even in the days when he believed Owen's lies about him being a navigator on a spice freighter. He had wanted nothing more than to follow in his footsteps, get offworld, get a piloting licence and go where the stars took him.

When Obi-Wan had told him the truth – he had to correct himself, feeling a pang of bitterness at the old wizard – _part _of the truth about his father's life and eventual fate, it had only sent that hero-worship into hyperspace. His father! A Jedi Knight! Best starpilot in the galaxy – Obi-Wan himself had said so! Luke had suffered sleepless nights imagining his father's adventures. On that fateful voyage to Alderaan, he had begged Obi-Wan to tell him of some of his father's adventures.

The pain in Obi-Wan's face that had always surfaced when Luke did so, he had put down to the memories of his father's death at Vader's hands. Now, he knew the truth. Obi-Wan was not mourning how his old friend had been betrayed and murdered, but the betrayal he himself had suffered.

Had he kept the truth from Luke out of spite? Had he wanted Luke to face Vader still unaware of his true identity? Learning the truth might have killed him.

_He has Leia's eyes._

Realising that, the link between this man and the monster that had been Darth Vader was broken in Luke's mind.

"What does it matter?" Ben said, before Luke could speak. "You said you relived that decision many times, father, but were never able to do anything about it. Well, thanks to Jacen Solo, that's about to change…and we're about to fade away like none of this ever happened."

"No," Anakin said. "No, it isn't. And no, we won't."

He gave them the message the Chlorians had sent him back for.

---------------------------------------------------------

Site Zero was a mistake.

The arrival of the Chlorians in this galaxy so long ago…some had words like _fate _or _destiny _for events such as those. They had invented a popular phrase for such events many centuries ago; they called it _the will of the Force_.

But Site Zero itself should not have come through that wormhole. The midichlorians came to realise this. Wherever they could they modified galactic events to ensure that its resting place was never discovered; hyperspace lanes adjacent to its position were never discovered, mapping missions in that part of space mysteriously developed faults or, due to mystifying errors, reported it to be devoid of anything of note whatsoever.

Site Zero was _not_ a window to the past.

It did not create wormholes that crossed both space and time. Space, yes; undoubtedly. But time, the midichlorians observed through many millennia of learning through their most advanced races, simply could not be allowed to be subverted. After all, they were the guardians of life in the galaxy. The gift they had bestowed through their symbiosis with life – which came to be known as 'The Force' – controlled destinies, steered galactic events, bound every single life-form to every other in a co-dependent network beyond the comprehension of most.

For that great cosmic causality chain to be unwritten at the whim of a single individual with access to Site Zero's powers…they could not, would not allow.

But to destroy that which had brought them here, which had saved them from destruction those countless years ago…they could not do.

And there was another reason. Far more important.

Another option was needed.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Parallel universes," Ben said emotionlessly.

"Parallel universes," Anakin repeated. He was smiling. He was the only one.

"Are you saying that – when I went back…everything I did here didn't change _anything_?"

"In _this_ universe, yes. It created this timeline we're living through now. But in the universe you came from, Ben…? No. It's still out there, somewhere."

Luke made the connection. "Jacen…?"

"Yes," his father nodded, confirming his guess. "Everything Jacen does in the past…all that he changes to create a new history there…here, it won't matter. This universe will go on…" and here he hesitated, "in a way."

"Why?" Ben asked. He sounded stunned. Luke had the thought that going back and changing history so completely was the one success Ben had considered himself to have had in his life.

"Because this universe…this version of reality…has as much _right_ to exist as any other. If one were to undo the other, how many new lives would perish? How many children do you think have been born to parents who would never have met had galactic history been different?"

"Are you saying this galaxy is _good_?"

"I'm saying some good has come from it, yes, Luke. The Empire has collapsed from within, with a new leader. Peace may be possible at a far reduced cost in lives than was possible in the original history. The Chlorians know this. They cannot allow it all to be wiped away."

"But Leia-!" Luke began, and could get no further. He could see the look in Anakin's eyes, the unquantifiable sadness.

"I know. I would have loved to have…" he began. "But she is one life amongst many. And she still exists. That's the beauty of it, don't you see? She's out there – in another time, with another history. She lives…" he turned to Ben suddenly, "what was my daughter like?"

Ben was pale. "She…she was leader of the New Republic. A natural leader. Compassionate, gifted, inspirational. The most ethical person I ever knew."

Anakin nodded, his eyes shining. "She sounds like someone I knew," he said quietly.

With that, he seemed to look away, through the bulkheads. A frown creased his brow. "Our time is short," he said. "The Death Star is preparing to fire on the station. It can't take another hit; it's coming apart by itself as it is. You have to get out of here."

Neither version of his son reacted to this. Anakin stepped forward and slapped a glowing blue hand down on one of their shoulders each, frustration evident in his tone. "Don't you understand what I'm _telling_ you? You're not going to fade from existence. You have your lives. So you'd better start _living _them."

"How?" Luke shot back. "My sister is dead. The Empire rules the galaxy. What kind of life am I meant to lead, exactly?"

"The life of a Jedi," Ben suggested.

"And what would _you _know about being a Jedi?"

When they had bickered like this only moments before, their father had been decisive in putting an end to it. Now, he merely sighed. Strangely, this was a more effective way of robbing their embryonic argument of oxygen.

"You don't understand," he said softly. "When the superlaser enlarged the portal, it acted like a beacon to the Chlorians. It drew them here from all over the galaxy. That's how they were able to talk to me as one sentient being to another," he lifted his hands from their shoulders, balls of blue energy dancing between them, "and how I was able to come back from death…for a time."

Ben's face fell. "No," he whispered. "No – father – you can't die. Look at you! You've got power beyond anything I've ever seen!"

Anakin walked away from them, toward the crumpled, lifeless form of Mara Jade. "When the station is destroyed…the Chlorians here will be gone from the galaxy. And with them gone, the Force will cease to exist – in this universe, at least."

He knelt by Mara, and looked up at them. Luke didn't know what to say. Typically, Ben suffered from no such indecisiveness.

"Then stop them! Stop Thrawn!" he implored his father. "We'll use the shuttlecraft – we – we could – with your powers and all of us," he looked at Luke, to Luke's surprise, "we have to _try_, don't we? We can't just let the Force be destroyed!"

Anakin laid a hand on Mara's stomach. "It is the will of the Force," he told Ben. "Too much death has taken place in their name for the Chlorians, my son. They needed to come together to realise that. Life in this galaxy will learn to live without them – and without the Jedi."

He closed his eyes.

"But not before the will of the Force acts for one…last…time."

And with a rasping cough and a suddenness that caused both Luke and Ben to take an involuntary step backward, Mara Jade simply sat up.

"Hello, Mara," Anakin smiled. The blue glow around his body was noticeably less incandescent than when he had first materialised to catch lightsabers bare-handed.

"Mara!" Luke blurted, unable to keep the relief and joy from his voice. He ran forward and knelt beside her, offering her a supporting hand. She took it with a glance of gratitude to him, but soon turned her eyes back to Anakin.

"Didn't I kill you?" she said.

He nodded.

"I'm sorry," she told him.

"I know," he replied.

He stood up. The blue glow was all but gone from him. Ben had tears in his eyes. "Father, I-"

Anakin held up a hand. "You _are_ my son," he told him. "You will always be my son. So much like me as a young man that I could never think of saying otherwise."

He stepped away from them all, only a few paces, but far enough that they could begin to see his solidity had faded; he was becoming more and more immaterial with each moment. "You're my sons. Brothers. You have so much in common, can't you see that? You've both been living up to an idea of Luke Skywalker…both obsessed with failing to measure up to a man whose life will never come to pass in this universe. You're free of him. Free of," and he smiled, "any mystical energy fields or microscopic beings controlling your destiny. Free to make your own choices."

He glanced up, as if receiving another message. "And if I were you," he added, "the first choice I'd make is to get the hell out of here before the Death Star fires again and this place goes up."

For someone dead until the last five minutes, Mara was recovering amazingly quickly, her old survival instincts kicking in right on cue. "He's right," she said, getting to her feet, swaying only a little on legs not quite used to being functional.

A glance at her two companions told her this wasn't going to be as quick a goodbye as could be hoped for in the face of imminent disintegration, however.

"I'll prep the shuttle," she said, with quiet diplomacy and a final nod to Anakin (he winked at her in response) she retreated to the shuttle's interior and began the pre-flight sequences.

"What will happen to you?" Luke asked.

"I don't know."

They had moved to him, almost unconsciously. He tried to reach out, but his form was spectral now, gossamer thin; his arms passed through theirs with only a shiver of movement to mark its passing.

"I don't know how to be anything else," Ben said, almost childlike.

"You'll find your place in the galaxy. Both of you. I know it."

"I wish…" Luke said, and then he laughed, without much enthusiasm. "I was gonna say…I wish it didn't have to be this way. But I guess that's what got us into this mess in the first place."

He felt a hand on his shoulder then, and looked up in surprise, the words forming in his mouth to ask his father how he had retained some of his physical presence…only to have those words die unsaid. The hand was not his father's.

"I'm sorry," Ben told him. "I know that's not enough, never gonna be enough…but we've got a few minutes of Jedi power left. You know I'm telling the truth."

"I know. And you're right. It's never gonna be enough," Luke sucked in a huge breath and exhaled, trying to push out all the rage and bitterness the last five years had bottled up within him. It didn't quite work.

But it was a start.

"But it's a start," he told his brother.

They bid goodbye to him then, and he watched the shuttle rise into the air and spin. He felt the goodbye of their minds as they reached out one last time and he did likewise, even as the shuttle's engines fired and with a roar that went right through him – in every way – they flew from the hangar bay and out of his life, forever.

"Will they be okay?" he asked.

"Difficult to see, the future is."

He glanced down at the diminutive figure of Yoda, squatting peacefully on a _gnoshyr _branch suspended quite impossibly in mid-air a few feet away, his chin resting on his trademark stick. "Without the Force, Master, I'd say it was impossible."

"Oh I don't know, Anakin," Obi-Wan's voice materialised a half-second ahead of his physical form as he came to stand to his right, the two Jedi Masters that had shaped his life at either side of him. "The Force isn't everything, you know."

Anakin's head turned with exaggerated slowness to look at his old friend and Master, the man who had been a father, a brother, a teacher…the man who had severed his legs, his arm, and left him to die screaming and charred and broken in a pit of molten lava.

"_Now_ you realise this?" he said.

Obi-Wan kept his expression grave. "No time like the present."

Yoda chewed on the end of his stick. He opened his mouth, no doubt to impart some typically priceless final crumb of irrefutable wisdom.

He laughed.

After a moment, Obi-Wan and Anakin joined him.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Incoming…!" Mara, at the helm despite their protests, had time for that single word of warning before she turned their shuttlecraft into a desperate turn.

The superlaser blast tore through space, an immensity of power flashing past them, within a ship's length of ripping them apart as it did so.

_Impact_.

There was no absorption. Not this time.

Site Zero blew apart, obliterated completely in a single, shockingly final shockwave of fire and debris.

A moment later, all three shuttlecraft occupants doubled over in agony. Luke gasped. He had felt Force-induced shockwaves before; had felt the death screams of those on Yavin IV when the world had been destroyed. But this was an order of magnitude worse.

Every single cell in his body was being ripped free of its lifetime of symbiosis with the midichlorians. He _felt _it as they fled from him, from Ben, from Mara…felt it as the Force they carried with them fled also.

It was true. He was free.

Freedom _hurt_.

---------------------------------------------------------

The wave passed through the shuttlecraft. The Death Star was next. It affected those with Jedi potential most, of course, their midichlorian counts proportionally higher, but every single person on that massive ship, Grand Admiral Thrawn included, felt their passing…

…and felt somehow _reduced_ for it.

The wave passed, onward and outward, faster than any ship through hyperspace. When it eventually dissipated at the very fringes of known space, it left behind a very different galaxy than when it had begun.

No-one would ever again utter the words _May the Force be with you._


	49. Coming Home

Galaxies Apart

Forty Eight

"Luke Skywalker. So pleased you could join us," Grand Admiral Thrawn inclined his head politely as he spoke.

They had been hit with the tractor beam whilst still recovering from the effects of the desymbiosis wave the destruction of Site Zero had triggered. Before any of them could consider thoughts of escape, the ship been gently touching down in one of the Death Star's cavernous hangar bays. Sadly, due to an obvious design oversight, Imperial shuttlecraft lacked hidden smuggling compartments.

Looking at Thrawn, though, sitting casually at the opposite end of the conference room table, Luke got the impression he wouldn't have fallen for that particular trick. Not for one second.

"Where is Mara?" Luke asked.

"She required medical attention," Thrawn's adjutant – Pellaeon, was it? Luke wasn't altogether sure – answered on behalf of his superior officer. "She's in our medbays."

Luke could hardly argue with that, although he wondered how exactly medical science treated the after-effects of spontaneous resurrection.

"You seem concerned for her welfare."

"Why shouldn't I be?" Luke returned. 

"Given that she was one of the vaunted Emperor's Hands, I would have surmised that made your ideologies fairly…_distinct_ from one another," Thrawn observed wryly.

Luke felt a chill as a moment later all lightness dropped from Thrawn's face. "I've already had to take decisive action against one of her fellow Hands intent on a suicide mission. Quite what I shall do with Mara is something I haven't decided yet."

"She's not a threat," Ben said, before Luke could respond. He placed a calming hand on his brother's arm. It was a fleeting gesture, but it was noted by Thrawn, as Ben had suspected it would be.

"Indeed? We shall see. But I did not invite either of you here to discuss the fate of Mara Jade," and he leaned forward, his blue hands pressing down on the conference table as he regarded them with a full-intensity stare, "I want to know what happened over there. I am not accustomed, gentlemen, to being at a loss to explain events. I want answers. And I want them now."

"How long have you got?" Ben replied.

"As long as it takes."

Ben laid it out for him. The Chlorians. The revelation that the station did not alter the past, but merely opened a window to an alternate universe in which time ran completely independent to their own. The Chlorians' re-gathering at Site Zero and their departure from reality upon its destruction. Thrawn made him explain this several times.

"History in this universe _cannot_ be altered?" he asked.

"No."

"The Force is gone?"

"Completely. Forever."

"In my experience, nothing is ever forever," Thrawn said softly. He gestured to one of the stormtroopers lining the walls in the conference room. The man approached him and snapped to attention, awaiting his orders.

Thrawn lazily pointed to Luke.

"Shoot him," he said.

"NO!" Ben cried out. He tried to spring, but was instantly restrained by stormtroopers on both sides, clamping their arms around his, pulling him back. "Thrawn, you son of a bitch, NO!"

Luke could only watch as the trooper lifted his weapon and took aim. He had time for a glance at Ben, still struggling mightily but in vain. He saw, to his mild surprise, a look of shock and disappointment on Pellaeon's face and he wondered if it would be the last thing he ever saw.

Images of Yoda, his father, Leia, and Mara Jade flashed through his mind as the barrel of the trooper's rifle came to bear-

"Hold your fire," Thrawn said, an instant before the trooper would have squeezed the trigger. Everyone in the room was frozen to the spot. No-one breathed, save Thrawn, who regarded Luke and Ben dispassionately.

"I believe we can term that an effective demonstration," he said. "Release him."

The troopers holding Ben let him go. Panting, Ben shot Thrawn a look of naked rage, even as Luke's heart remembered how to beat and he slumped into the nearest chair. "You were _testing _us. You wanted to see if the Force was really gone."

"It seemed the most efficient way," Thrawn admitted readily.

To his mild surprise, Ben continued to challenge him. "You must have felt it, Thrawn. Even inside your ysalamiri bubble, I'm betting you felt a sudden chill pass through you. A feeling that something had been _taken_ from deep inside you didn't even know was there."

Thrawn's face was as impassive as ever, but both Ben and Luke could see Pellaeon's eyes bulge in recognition of the sensation he was describing, and at that moment Ben knew Thrawn was convinced.

"So now you know. We've told you everything."

"What happened to Vader?"

Ben and Luke exchanged a look. It was Luke who spoke. "He gave his life so we could escape," he said.

"How very noble of him," Thrawn said, after a pregnant pause in which it became clear any further information would have to be specifically requested. There was more to it, Thrawn was certain of that, but the simple fact was that Vader _was_ dead; nothing save the shuttlecraft had survived Site Zero's destruction. Details of his demise were, at this point, immaterial.

"So what now? A detention block?" Luke asked, trying to muster as much defiance into his tone as he could. "Or are you just gonna kill us now?"

Thrawn eyed him with, it seemed, a trace of amusement. "That's what you expect," he said, almost to himself, "I've had my use for you, and now it's death or imprisonment. And the Death Star goes back to Imperial space and resumes its campaign of terror to keep the Empire's worlds in line. That about cover it?"

He sighed. "Luke…Ben…I am _not_ Palpatine. I admit that since learning of the existence of Site Zero and hearing that everything we've done could be wiped away, I acted quickly and with more than a little ruthlessness more in keeping with the characteristics of my illustrious predecessor. I did that because I refuse to stand back and allow the progress we've made be undone. But with what you've told me, that's no longer a danger."

He pointed at a map of the galaxy hung on one of the conference room walls. "Need I remind either of you that the _Alderaan _is still out there, sitting square in the middle of Coruscant's system. Until we arrive, I intend to give orders that my Imperial forces there are to stand down and surrender."

"_What_?" Ben and Pellaeon gasped simultaneously.

Thrawn sat back, as ever enjoying the attention and the amazement of those around him. "I had fully intended to open negotiations for a peaceful settlement with the Alliance before the truth emerged regarding Site Zero and my hand was forced into action. With that behind us, I see no reason why we can't resume where we left off."

"How about that after Ackbar's death in this exact room, the Alliance will never trust another flag of truce you wave under their noses ever again?" Ben returned.

"He's right, sir," Pellaeon nodded. "They'll never-"

Thrawn waved their protests away. "No doubt you're correct. But they may have cause to pause and consider if the offer comes from a hero of the Alliance."

"Me?" Luke spluttered. "I'm far from-"

"No," Thrawn shook his head. "I wasn't thinking of you," and he flicked a switch on the communications tablet on the table in front of him. "Send him in, Lieutenant."

The doors to the conference room _swooshed _open. Two stormtroopers were framed in the doorway, and between them-

"Wedge?!" Luke blurted out. "Wedge Antilles?! What are _you_ doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Wedge replied, sweeping the room with a single look and not looking one bit thrilled with its contents. He himself looked, to put it bluntly, like hell. Exposure cuts and bruises covered his skin; Luke recognised the symptoms of emergency explosive decompression.

"Captain Antilles led a valiant attack on our exhaust port during the drama with the portal," Thrawn said. There was not a trace of superiority or gloating in his voice. "An attack from which he was the only survivor."

Luke felt his stomach turn to ice. No. Rogue Squadron, gone? He took a step toward Wedge, only to stop at the hostility he saw in his former friend's eyes. "Wedge…" he said, "Wedge, I'm so sorry…"

"Yeah. Me too. So is this where we get the victory speech and our date of execution, or do I have to stand here and ache a while longer?"

"I must say, you're all remarkably eager to run off to your executions," Thrawn said, amusement circling his mouth once again. "As I've informed your friends here-"

"They're not my friends. I don't even know who _you're_ supposed to be," Wedge said, referring to Ben.

Ben regarded him without much regard. He had known Wedge Antilles in his own past, of course; he had been one of the few New Republic commanders who had never really warmed to him.

"I'm his clone." 

"Naturally."

"-as I was saying," Thawn continued, a little more edge creeping into his words at the annoyance of being made to suffer interruptions, "and sorry to disappoint, but barring _extreme_ stupidity on your parts _none_ of you are to be executed. Captain Antilles, I would like you to contact the _Alderaan _and inform them to break off their attack on Coruscant's defensive fleet, who have been instructed to surrender immediately and unconditionally."

Wedge's eyes merely hardened further at this news. "Another one of your little tricks, Thrawn?" he said harshly. "You're so in love with your own cleverness, aren't you? Well here's the thing: I don't react well to taking orders from the guy who's just murdered every last member of my Squadron. I hope the _Alderaan _blows every single Imperial ship to hell and back."

"I did what I believed was necessary, Captain," Thrawn countered, not sounding one bit apologetic. "After Sluis Van, I would have assumed this was something you would be familiar with."

That one stung. Luke could see its impact on Wedge's face, and that impenetrable façade of hatred cracked just a little. Thawn saw it too, and pressed further.

"Believe me or don't, Captain, but I found Admiral Ackbar's death every bit as much of a tragedy as you did. I did not enjoy telling my finest TIE pilots to deliberately employ suicide tactics. Nor do I derive any particular pleasure that one of the finest squadrons of starfighter pilots ever to be assembled has been all but eradicated. But if we work together, you and I, we can prevent events like these from happening again."

"I don't believe you. And I won't help you."

"Wedge – you don't understand," Luke said. He could keep silent no longer. "He thought – we _all _thought – that the instant anyone got through that portal we'd all be history."

"Portal? You mean that light show that the space station was putting out?"

"Yes. It was a little more than a light show, Wedge. It was a one-way gateway to the past," Luke told him.

In response, Wedge merely snorted. "So how've you been these last five years, Luke? _Before_ you joined the Empire, that is. Been chowing down on any good hallucinogenics I should know about? Because it sure as hell sounds like it. Go to hell. All of you, go to hell. Throw me in a cell. Shoot me. Talk me to death. I don't care. You should all be dead anyway. I didn't miss. I _know _I didn't miss-"

"Ah," Ben said.

All eyes in the room turned to him. He shrugged, and looked almost embarrassed.

"I…uh, I think I can explain that," he said.

---------------------------------------------------------

They found it after only a few hours. Filed away neatly in one of the massive storerooms aboard the Death Star where it could quite easily have lain undisturbed for another few decades.

"What is it?" Thrawn asked, when the object had been brought up to the conference room for him to inspect. He turned it over in his hands.

Ben told him.

"Impossible," Wedge said. "Impossible. They don't exist. They – it's – I don't – my entire Squadron – it's _impossible_." He looked as if he were about to throw up.

"Tell me about it," Luke said, with some feeling. He was patting Wedge on the shoulder and Wedge wasn't protesting.

"I brought two," Ben explained, "one to act as backup in case the other had a system failure. Palpatine must have found one of them. That's how he knew about the time travel in the first place."

"You _knew_ the Death Star was impervious to exhaust port attack and you neglected to inform me of this?" Thrawn said.

"Hey, when I was here it wasn't an issue. Proton inhibitor or not we were about to be sucked into a time-portal to the Forc…to…" Ben trailed off, "…to _space_ knows where. Besides, _Grand Admiral_, in case you've forgotten, I was your prisoner, not your guest. I had to hold back something in case I needed to bargain for my life."

Thrawn looked as if he were seriously considering taking this further. With a supreme effort of will, his fingers uncurled from the inhibitor. He threw the cylinder to Wedge, who caught it.

"Examine it," he said. "Take it to your Alliance scientists if you wish. In two days, Captain, we drop from hyperspace back into the Coruscanti system. What happens then to us, to the _Alderaan_, to the entire galaxy…that decision rests entirely in your hands. Stop the war or begin the bloodbath anew. The choice is yours."

Seemingly finished with Wedge for now, Thrawn turned his gaze on Luke and Ben. "And you," he said, "with the Force gone, neither of you will become the Jedi Knights you were once perhaps meant to be. So the question becomes: what place will you make for yourselves in the galaxy? What will you do? Fade into obscurity, or rise to the challenge?"

It was Luke who spoke first. "Nothing in this galaxy is the way it was supposed to be," he said with quiet conviction. But as the others watched, for the first time, something approaching a smile ghosted his lips.

"But maybe," he said, "maybe that's not always a bad thing."

---------------------------------------------------------

"He's dead, isn't he?"

Crix Madine couldn't look her in the eye. "Winter…we don't know what's going on. I wish we did," he said, quite truthfully. When the Empire's Death Star (they were really going to have to name that damn thing, he was getting tired of that unwieldy way of describing it) had absconded into hyperspace a few days previously, it had been so simple at first.

They had blown nine Star Destroyers to atoms with the superlaser; the _Executor _itself, former flagship of the Imperial Navy, had escaped destruction only through fleeing to the other side of Coruscant before the _Alderaan _could lock on. The rest of the Empire's forces had followed suit when it had become obvious that the _Alderaan_'s engines remained inoperative.

And there they had remained, ever since, in a stalemate. The _Alderaan _had the capabilities to destroy any ship unwise enough to poke its nose out, but without mobility, it lacked the support ships and the personnel to do anything with that superiority other than sit there…and wait.

Wait for word from Rogue Squadron.

None had arrived.

They couldn't stay here forever. Supplies onboard for even the skeleton crew they were running with were not limitless. Eventually Madine would have to make the call to fall back to one of the very few Alliance-friendly worlds. That threw up a whole host of exciting new dangers; when operating from small freighters, Alliance ships could dock on worlds and receive assistance relatively safely for them and their supporters.

It would, Madine thought with a trace of gallows humour, be somewhat more difficult to disguise the existence of a world's Alliance sympathisers when a Death Star the size of a moon popped into orbit above.

If Rogue Squadron had succeeded, they would have been home by now. He knew it. Winter knew it. Every single person on the _Alderaan _knew it. They had failed. They were dead. Wedge Antilles was dead.

"He's the best," he told her.

She nodded, grabbing onto the words like a lifeline. "He is," she said. "You should have seen him on Sluis Van, Crix…he pulled stunts in a Speeder – a _Speeder! _– that most pilots couldn't have pulled in a V-Wing…if I'd been flying with anyone else, I would have been killed."

"Exactly," he said, as cheerfully as he could muster, experiencing the strange sensation of wishing she would walk away from his command chair. He needed to be focussed more than ever, and lying to the face of someone so lovely was a tiring business.

She touched his arm. He jolted a little at that, and experienced another unwelcome sensation; the faintest of dark stirrings within him that whispered that for all the tragedy that would befall the Alliance if Wedge were never to return, there would be one upside…

"Thank you."

"Any time," he said.

She had, quite literally, just left the bridge when his tactical officer's console lit up. "Hyperspace exit vectors, sir – something's coming in…"

Indeed, something did.

In his adrenaline rush, Crix couldn't even begin to think about remembering the words _commence primary ignition_. "Fire her up!" he barked instead to the Chamber Master, who got the message nonetheless and shouted his compliance.

"We're being hailed…?" the communications officer said, with some disbelief.

"Keep her charging," Madine instructed the Chamber Master. "Alright, put it up." _Let's see what bantha fodder Thrawn wants to trick us with _this_ time…_

But the holo that appeared was not of Thrawn.

"This is Captain Wedge Antilles aboard the Death Star _Skywalker_. I have assumed control of the vessel from Grand Admiral Thrawn of the Galactic Empire. I am requesting, formally, that you escort us to Coruscant orbit."

In his amazement, in his speechlessness, the one coherent thought that Crix Madine could form was _– they finally named the damn thing_.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Where are you going?"

"Away. Far, _far_ away."

He was standing there, in her doorway. Not blocking it as such, not deliberately or obviously, but if she wanted to get past him with her things (such as they were) she would have to push past. And he knew it.

"Just like that?"

"Yes, Skywalker, just like that," she snapped. "What were you expecting? An epic poem lining out my motives for leaving in rhyming stanzas? Have you _met_ me lately? This speech I'm giving you right now is probably the most I've talked to anyone the last eight, nine years, anyone but…"

"Him?"

"Yes," Mara sighed, too tired suddenly even to rile herself. "Yes, Palpatine. My master. You remember him. Pale guy, fond of shrouds. The one who hollowed me out, left me to die. The one who made me kill your father from beyond the grave."

She sat heavily on her cot's mattress. They had been put up in as much comfort as the Death Star's officer quarters could offer, which was meagre, but a thousand times preferable to the detention cell they'd all been expecting when that tractor beam had first locked on a few days and a million years ago. It was such a complicated galaxy.

"I don't think anyone will miss me. Peace talks to settle galactic civil wars were never my forte as a trained assassin, astonishingly enough. So I'd like to slip out and vanish somewhere before Thrawn comes off whatever insane medication he's on and reconsiders his decision not to have me dealt with."

"You think he's crazy because he let you live?" Luke said, with some surprise. He probably thought she sounded ungrateful, the idiot.

"If he wants to paint himself as the anti-Vader to make this peace con work by not executing any of us, fine," she said. "You don't exactly hear me arguing. But don't expect me to stick around on his radar when he tires of that particular hand of sabacc and tosses us into the nearest black hole. And I don't know about you, Skywalker, but thanks to the whole _no more Force _thing I don't have an early warning system for danger like I used to, so I'm feeling cautious…"

"Luke."

"What?"

"Call me Luke."

"Fine – Luke – whatever," she stood up, slinging her bag around her shoulder, feeling the comforting weight of the blaster she'd managed to palm two days ago nestled in her concealed holster. "It's been fun, in a horrifically life-altering permanently psychologically scarring kind of way. Be seeing you."

She half-expected him to block her way, but he stood aside and let her pass. She was walking down the corridor battling the various emotions vying for supremacy within her when he called out her name and a question she didn't quite catch.

"What is it now?"

"I said – can I come with you?"

She simply stared at him, having trouble believing what she'd just heard, searching his face for some hint of the facial tic that would betray the fact that he was kidding and seal his doom and imminent departure from the world of the living. But nothing showed. Every nuance of that blasted farmboy face of his oozed utter sincerity.

"Why in the mouth of the Maw would you want to do that?"

He shrugged. "Peace talks aren't my thing, either. And…well," he seemed embarrassed, "…the truth is, with everything that's happened, I kinda realised that I don't really have any plans for what I want to do with my life."

"I'm not-"

"And I thought, I guess…that with you around, at least I'd never lack for excitement at least."

"But-"

"And I do have those two million credits stored on Bilbringi."

There was a pause.

He coughed, delicately, discreetly. "I've had what you might call a _profitable _few years skating on the thin edge of the law. Spent a lot of money customising my ship, but the rest I sank into accounts in case I ever needed it. Well…" and again, he shrugged, "…I guess we could have some fun with it. If you wanted to."

"What about your brother?" she said.

His expression changed. He averted her eyes. "We're different, he and I," he said quietly. "We have different ideas of what we want to do. I'll see him from time to time. I'm pretty certain of that."

He sounded certain, sure enough. He also sounded slightly concerned by the prospect.

"So does that mean I can come with you?"

And she laughed. It shocked her, that laugh. She hadn't laughed in what felt like decades, but she laughed now. Truthfully, if only for the ability to make her laugh, she had already decided that Luke Skywalker could stay in her life a little while longer – two million credits or not.

"Get your stuff. Be there in five minutes, understand? Beyond that, I'm not waiting around."

"Artoo and I will be there," he promised her, and was gone before she could even muster the question of _Artoo…? _

---------------------------------------------------------

The conference that would eventually produce what came to be known as the Ackbar Accords was delayed in starting by fifteen minutes.

"Sorry we're late," Wedge Antilles apologised, as he and Winter sat down in their reserved seats. Winter was as composed and as beautiful as ever. He wished he could have said the same for himself. She flashed a smile at him that made him ache; as crazy in love with her as he was, as head-spinning as the events overtaking them were, he couldn't help but think of Dack, of Jansen, of the friends lost in the insanity of war for whom days like today were forever out of reach.

He caught Thrawn's eye and the knowing gleam behind them, and then the Grand Admiral was all business as he began the opening speech to officially begin the negotiations.

Five days later, the Galactic Civil War was over.

---------------------------------------------------------

Coruscant at night. He never tired of it. With the view offered from the apartment they'd given him, chances were he never would.

Luke had gone without a goodbye. He was surprised at how calmly he had absorbed this; not with suspicion, or hatred, merely with a kind of unsurprised acceptance. His brother had been through a lot, to put it mildly. Their relationship would not be easy, but it was worth working on. He knew that now.

They had offered him the rank of General in the new army. Even stripped of his Jedi abilities, thanks to his time-travelling origins he had the unique and incredibly powerful advantage of foreknowledge of at least some of the pitfalls and perils of the years to come.

Added to that, Thrawn himself had pulled him aside only a few days ago and told him that he saw potential in him. He had sensed that he had challenged the Grand Admiral's beliefs somewhat; Thrawn, he suspected, had always imagined Jedi to be completely reliant on the Force for their talents.

He had accepted the rank.

His door _buzzed_ for attention. He pressed the release button, to reveal a squat mail service droid. "Delivery," it informed him in a monotone, and after a rapid identity check, he was left holding a package. There was a holo-cube attached to it. He slipped into the reader.

"Consider this a gift, given in good faith," the holo of Thrawn told him. "You of all people should realise the importance of remembering the past even as we move to the future. To new beginnings, Ben. For all of us."

The message ended. Ben unwrapped the package, though he had long since guessed its contents.

_Snap-hiss_.

His father's lightsaber lit the interior of his apartment, bathing it in a crimson glow. Naked of the Force, Ben knew he could never again wield the weapon in battle, never use it to block blaster bolts or to scythe through opponents.

That didn't matter.

The blade _hissed _as a single tear fell into its beam and was vaporised instantly. Ben deactivated it an instant later and placed the hilt carefully, reverentially, in a prominent place amongst all he had to call his own.

This done, he walked to the window and looked out onto the vista of life outside.

"Well, father," he said softly, "I'm finally home."


	50. 20 Years Later

Galaxies Apart

Epilogue: Part One

Twenty Years Later

They had waited a thousand years for this moment. In living ships, their entire civilisation had crossed the distance between galaxies, ready to make war once more.

Contact with their Intendants had been lost shortly before. It was strange, certainly, but the Vong had numbers, weapons, and ships almost beyond count. This galaxy of infidels would be swept away in short order.

The Yuuzhan Vong fleet dropped from superluminal velocity in the Helska IV system, earlier than they had planned. The reason for this became abundantly clear very quickly.

A massive ring of Interdictor Cruisers encircled the system, many hundreds of millions of miles in diameter. Their gravity wells reinforcing one another, they had created a gargantuan net in which the Vong fleet had just been caught.

But they were not alone in that net.

Waiting for them were ships in an order of magnitude not even the Vong could comprehend. Star Destroyers filled the Helska IV system, arranged perfectly in an entrapment formation designed purposefully to pound the Vong fleet in as efficient a manner as possible.

And even as the Vong started, somewhat belatedly, to respond, they realised as one the true purpose of those harrying ships around them. They were herders. Designed to push the Vong fleet, scattered by the sudden yank to sublight, into a tight defensive formation.

On cue and in perfect synchronicity, specific Interdictor Cruisers switched off their gravity wells. Only for a few seconds. Not for long enough for the Vong to take advantage or to flee.

But long enough for the first Death Star to drop from hyperspace.

And the second.

And the third.

And the fourth.

Grand Admiral Ben Skywalker gave the order to fire himself.

Twenty years of research and development into superlaser technology had yielded impressive results. The Vong fleet had no time to scatter, and even if they had, they would have been running into the seemingly endless ranks of Star Destroyers on all sides.

Superlaser blasts lit the Helska skies.

A thousand years of waiting ended in less than five minutes.

When the cheering had abated on the bridge of the Death Star _Revan's Fist_, Ben Skywalker allowed himself a rare smile, and asked for a channel to be opened to Coruscant, and to the Supreme Chancellor.

---------------------------------------------------------

The atmosphere in the Senate was electric. The news had leaked, no doubt, but until he spoke it would not be official. Well, he was about to do just that. He stood. A hush rippled outward through that massive antechamber. He never tired of that instant, rapt attention generated by so small a physical gesture.

"Members of the Senate," Supreme Chancellor Thrawn said. "Three hours ago, Galactic Standard Time, I received notification from Grand Admiral Skywalker that our fleet at Helska IV have completely obliterated the Yuuzhan Vong invasion force."

He got as far as _Vong _before the roar of approval washed away the rest of his words from the audible spectrum. It had taken long and complex political manoeuvres to swing their support for this decisive strike. Not to mention the incredibly difficult business of securing funds for the construction of the Galactic fleet, the third and fourth Death Stars not least of which.

Ironically, as a Grand Admiral he had looked upon the superweapons with scorn, feeling them to be a huge drain on resources and manpower. But upon his move into politics, he had quickly realised that while military battles were won with blood and laserfire, political success could only be achieved through symbols. And as a symbol of power and a beacon of security against threats real or exaggerated, a Death Star was hard to beat.

Thrawn had found battlefield tactics flowed naturally to him. They always had. But compared to the politics required in peacetime, outwitting a far superior force with limited resources was like shooting mynocks in a stasis field with a superlaser.

He had enjoyed himself immensely.

The roar finally abated. Thrawn knew what he said now wasn't going to go down with the same enthusiasm – at least, not with most.

"Effective immediately, I am hereby announcing my retirement as Supreme Chancellor."

A hush fell, followed by another roar, this time of confusion and questions. Multiple requests for speaking privileges logged themselves into his console before him. He denied them all, keeping the individual Senators' pods rooted firmly to their docking stations, keeping himself alone at centre stage. _For the last time_, he thought, experiencing a bittersweet thrill at the words.

"I have done what I set out to do," he told them. "We stand now, the Galactic Alliance, stronger than the Old Republic and the Empire ever dreamed of being – as our departed would-be conquerors the Yuuzhan Vong can attest to. In the last two decades we have seen the beginning of a new age. Our extra-galactic exploration programme stands on the brink of launch. We have known peace. We have prepared for war. And we have learned anew to co-exist."

His voice changed tone. "But there will always be new dangers. New threats. That is the nature of existence. We must never lapse into the sort of banal bureaucratic slumber that caused the fall of the Old Republic and allowed the corruption of Palpatine to take hold."

Applause and agreement. "As for myself…" he went on, and he smiled, "…twenty years of standing here is quite long enough. Who knows. I might get a comfortable chair and take up sabacc."

Laughter. The hubbub had died to one of acceptance, as he'd known it would. Politicians were like that. Their thoughts would already be turning to-

"It's customary for me to nominate who I believe would be a worthy successor," he went on. "Much as we might have clashed in this room in the past – it is my belief that Mon Mothma is the obvious choice to take that leadership role."

Polite applause met his words. In her pod, he knew she would be regarding him with that detached coolness, aware that the holo-cams would now have switched to her. She had taken time to emerge from hiding those long years ago, and remained resolutely suspicious of him and his motives two decades later. He admired that. It showed courage.

She would need every ounce of that quality.

A new speaking request privilege flashed on his console. He gave it a cursory glance, ready to deny it as he had the others, before he registered the source. His throat dried. The master manipulator had failed to anticipate this.

"The Chancellor recognises the observers present from the Chiss Ascendancy."

Cha'form'bintrano nodded in acceptance as his pod's repulsorlifts gracefully brought him to the attention of the rest of the Senate. Taller than Thrawn, his red eyes and blue skin instantly signalled his common species ancestry with the Supreme Chancellor.

"Despite not being a member of the Alliance," Cha'form'bintrano said, "Csilla has long observed your leadership of this…impressive…collection of worlds, Mitth'raw'nuruodo," he used Thrawn's full Chiss name, the first time Thrawn had heard it spoken aloud in many years.

"Your banishment from Csilla was for the violation of battle ethics in using the concept of the pre-emptive strike. We remain ideologically opposed to the strategy; however, in light of the undeniably high number of lives and worlds saved through the swift and commendable elimination of the Far Outsiders," again, he was using the Chiss term, this time for the Vong, "a threat long feared by our people…your banishment has been rescinded."

For the first time in his tenure as Supreme Chancellor, Thrawn didn't know what to say. His homeworld. His family. All had been taken from him in exchange for his career in the Empire. Now, returned.

"Come home," Cha'form'bintrano said.

In the resounding cheers of approval that followed, all he could do was nod.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Oh, don't grumble so," she rebuked him, but with a twinkle in her eye. "You know full well you love every second of it."

"Oh yes," he agreed, "there's nothing more I love than being paraded in front of them like some sort of relic. Look, kids, it's Admiral Antilles! He remembers when the Rogues were just one squadron! He still says things like _by the Force _and _may the Force be with you_!" he sighed. "Do you know after my last inaugural address, one cadet actually asked me what the Force _was_?"

As she smoothed down his dress tunic, Winter smiled. "Shocking," she said gravely.

Just as she'd known it would, his almost-a-grin faded. She recognised that look instantly, by the straightening of his posture and the faraway gleam in his eyes. Her hands sought out his and he squeezed them almost unconsciously.

"It's not fair," he told her.

"I know," she said, all traces of mock gravitas gone now. "But they would be so proud to see what you've helped to build, Wedge. Every kid out there dreaming of flying in the Rogue Squadrons will have seen the memorial on Coruscant. They may not know about the Force, but they'll know what those men did. What they gave."

He took in a long, steadying breath, failing to see the admiring look she was giving him. Twenty years later, the deaths of his wingmates above the Death Star still affected him deeply. That was why she loved him. She kissed him impulsively and he responded, feeling at least some of his troubles melt into the embrace.

Seeing him steady himself one last time before going out there to address the troops, however, she couldn't resist one final tease. "Just imagine - little Jagged might be out there one day," she said, as casually as she could.

Jagged Antilles was seven years old and anyone who met him fell instantly in love with him. He was a tornado in human form, possessing every bit of his father's sense of adventure coupled with his mother's intelligence and shockingly blonde, almost white hair. Wedge doted on him endlessly, to the boy's increasing embarrassment and his mother's ceaseless amusement.

Wedge scowled at her. "_That'll _be the day," he said darkly.

"Good luck…" she called after him. With a mother's intuition, she knew that despite his father's protests, sooner or later little Jagged would find himself swept up by the endless drama of life.

With that thought settling into her mind, she slipped into the huge crowd of cadets and watched with pride as her husband held them enthralled. Not everyone here would make it through training. And of those, not all would survive active duty.

Yet here they stood.

And she was proud to stand with them.

---------------------------------------------------------

The incessant bleep of the holo-emitter wasn't going away, it seemed. With some reluctance, Thrawn – no longer Grand Admiral Thrawn, no longer Supreme Chancellor Thrawn – pulled himself away from simply staring out at the frozen splendour of his homeworld visible through the floor-to-ceiling window of his ancestral family home.

Gilaad Pellaeon, now C-in-C of the Alliance military, had insisted on bringing him home personally on the _Alderaan_. After much debate the reformed Senate had decided, as one of its first orders of business, that the _Alderaan's _name was to stay unchanged as a testimony and a timely reminder of the recent past.

They _had _been rechristened as 'Battle Moons' rather than 'Death Stars', however. He knew that Grand Admiral Skywalker preferred the old designation. Given his reputation in battle, no-one particularly felt like arguing with him. Especially not with his father's lightsaber hanging prominently from his belt.

He ran through the possibilities for who could be requesting his time as he moved to the emitter. For obvious reasons, his holo address was extremely hard to get hold of. The last call, shortly after he had assumed occupancy here only a few days ago, had been from Supreme Chancellor Mon Mothma. She had thanked him for his nomination. He had wished her well. She had told him she loathed him and always would.

Fine, so she hadn't said the last part. She didn't need to.

As he flicked the accept transmission button, he reflected that, unlikely as it was, there was _one_ other possibility-

"_Hello there_."

He made no attempt to hide his surprise. These days, what was the need?

"Luke," he said in greeting. "How are you?"

"_Doing just fine_."

Whilst perfectly understandable, Luke's holo was not of the highest quality, due to the encrypt program running over the transmission. A trace run on the location would come up with fourteen different origin points, Thrawn knew, none of them remotely accurate. Whatever slicer he had hired to keep him off the grid had done his work well.

"And how is Mara?"

Luke grinned. You couldn't have removed that smile with a lightsaber. "_Good_."

_I'll bet she is_, Thrawn mused. "What can I do for you?" he said aloud.

"_Nothing. Just calling to say congratulations, I guess, and to wish you a happy retirement._ _Still can't quite picture the Alliance Senate debates without you_."

"I'm sure they'll manage somehow."

Something flashed in front of the holo, just for a moment. Luke didn't comment on it. Neither did Thrawn.

"_Just one more thing…_"

"Yes?"

"_Thank you_."

Thrawn looked the former Jedi Knight in the eyes. He was so like his more famous brother in some ways; the same strength lurked there. And yet while Ben Skywalker had cut a swathe of success through the Navy, leading the Alliance's forces to such stunning victories over the Ssi-ruuvi Imperium and now the Vong…Luke Skywalker had quietly and completely vanished.

"You're welcome."

Luke was about to end the transmission, he saw. He wouldn't get another chance. "Luke – I have to ask," he said, "do you see him?"

"_Sometimes_," Luke replied. A trace of a smile appeared. "_He's a busy man these days. I hear being a Grand Admiral has its drawbacks._"

"So they say," Thrawn replied. He surprised even himself by continuing. "Do you believe in the greater good, Luke? Do you think we should forgive evil acts if they prevent even bigger losses of life?"

"_There's no such thing as the Dark Side or the Light Side any more. Maybe…I don't know, maybe there never was. What we do is less important than why we did it._"

"And forgiveness?" Thrawn prompted.

"_I love my brother. But I miss my sister_," Luke shrugged. "_It's not as simple as forgive or don't forgive. They're just words, I guess. Like life is some sort of story with heroes and villains, treasure and magic. If I've come to realise anything, it's that life is more complicated than that._"

"Wise words."

"_I really have to go. Goodbye, Thrawn_."

"Goodbye, Luke."

The holo transmission cut out. Luke Skywalker vanished from his sight, never to return. Thrawn found himself staring at the emitter for a few moments.

The slicer had done his job, undoubtedly. But as Supreme Chancellor for twenty years, Thrawn had more than mere slicers at his disposal. He had tracked Luke and Mara down to their homestead on Myrkr long ago, had them kept under discreet observation for a time.

That flash across the holo he had pretended not to see – would that be Jaina? Yes; judging by her size, it had to be. Jaina would be eleven now, if his calculations were correct. Anakin would be fourteen. By all accounts, both were settling well into their Hyllyard City schooling system. Excelling, doubtlessly.

It was hard to imagine. Luke Skywalker and Mara Jade, happily married, living an anonymous life on a backwater world with their children. Most likely Anakin and Jaina would not be told of their parents' past until a certain age, if ever.

One thing he knew – they had nothing to fear from him. Thrawn wished them well, even as he rose to his feet and walked back to that view.

As he did so, he let out a breath. It was no ordinary exhalation. Since he had encountered the Far Outsiders, as a young man so long ago now, he felt as if his whole purpose had been focussed upon trying to find some way to counteract the deadly threat they would one day pose. That threat was gone.

He was letting out the sigh of relaxation he had denied himself his entire life.

Rukh allowed him to finish that sigh.

"I knew you'd come," Thrawn said quietly.

Rukh had been standing patiently on the outside balcony. How he had gotten himself there Thrawn could not begin to guess; the cliffs outside were sheer, impossible climbs. But the Noghri were renowned for their ability to do the impossible.

"I needed you," he said, as Rukh advanced on him. "I needed the Noghri to track down every Vong spy. Only with their Intendants eliminated swiftly could I convince the Vong that we remained weak enough for them to attack as they had originally planned. Without that, they would have regrouped. You yourself killed Nom Anor, Rukh. Believe me when I tell you that you helped to save trillions of lives."

"At the cost of the continued poisoning of our homeworld," Rukh responded. "And many Noghri lives. Perhaps some may see this as the greater good. Forgive me if I am not among them."

Thrawn nodded. He walked past Rukh in measured, even strides, even as his former personal bodyguard withdrew the slim, lethal knife from his tunic. He gestured to the Csillan vista spread out below them.

"This is my home, just as Honoghr is yours. I had forgotten how beautiful it was."

"Honoghr will never be beautiful again," Rukh's voice whispered in his ear.

A moment later, he was gone.

Thrawn stood there for as long as he could before the pain drove him to his knees. Rukh's knife had struck home straight and true, a beautiful stroke. He made no effort to remove it.

"Artistically done," he whispered, crumpling to the floor of the home so long denied to him. The red glow in his eyes flickered and died, and Thrawn, once the last of the Grand Admirals, first Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Alliance…was gone.

---------------------------------------------------------

_It is done. _

Back onboard his shuttle, climbing into low Csilla orbit even as his navicomputer crunched escape vector co-ordinates, Rukh entered this simple three-word message into his encrypted data stream and sent it to the person who had revealed the truth of their generations-long deception to he and the Noghri people only a few months ago.

Now it was a case of waiting to see if Mon Mothma lived up to her side of the agreement.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Do you miss it?"

They were reclining on a small patch of grass, watching shuttles rise above the Hyllyard City spaceport, departing for space. It had been five years since they'd left the surface of Myrkr. Jaina and Anakin, both of whom had just gone to school on this balmy Myrkr summers day, were nagging for an offworld vacation.

If they had known their parents had almost three million credits to spend on one, Luke suspected, it was very likely they would simply explode into little child-shaped puffs of excitement.

"At the beginning, maybe. Now…not at all," he admitted. "You?"

Mara was wondering whether to tell him the truth. He could see as much. "Sometimes," she said. "But Death Stars and time travel didn't keep me as busy as those two do."

"I hear ya."

"What are you thinking about?"

"How did you know I-"

"Out with it, Skywalker."

"You can't still call me that," he protested mildly. "It's your name now too, in case you've forgotten."

"And who'll stop me? Gonna paint a branch blue and pretend it's a lightsaber, are you?"

He had to laugh at that, and in doing so admitted defeat. "I was thinking of Jacen," he said.

"Oh."

"It would have been nice for Jaina and Anakin to know him."

She just nodded, sensing that was all he wanted. He got like this sometimes, even now after all these years. Jacen had been his last link to the sister he'd barely gotten to know…only for Jacen himself to vanish forever.

"Come on," she said, standing up and dragging him to his feet. She kissed him just long enough and just deep enough to engage his interest before breaking off, to his obvious chagrin.

"Where are we going?" he asked, even as they began to walk.

"Haven't you figured that out yet, Luke?" she called back over her shoulder, as they pressed deeper into the forest. "I don't know. Nobody knows. That what makes it so _good_."


	51. The End

Galaxies Apart

Epilogue: Part Two

_57 years ago, in a galaxy a whisper away…_

Theed had never known a celebration like it.

Colours bedecked the streets of the city. A parade composed of humans and Gungans, watched by members of both species as well as many offworlders, was winding its way gradually toward the Palace. Gungan musicians and performers performed their instruments and their acrobatics for the first time outside the great aquatic cities in a long time. The spirit of reconciliation, of exuberance, was palpable.

Anakin Skywalker had seen Jabba's occasional processions through Mos Eisley. Next to this they looked tame, albeit in a more violent kind of way; Jabba's purpose with his processions was not to spread joy, but to remind his serfs who ran the show on that particular slice of Tatooine's dustbowl surface.

Anakin's eyes bulged from his head as he walked, dazzled by his surroundings, deafened by the Gungan drums and trumpets, not quite knowing what to gawp and gape at next. There was so much noise and joy. Against the odds, the invasion had been repelled, the battledroid army and its Trade Federation masters defeated.

But there was sadness also. Some Gungans, and some humans, did not join in with the others in their dancing and singing. He had asked Obi-Wan why, when the parade was just beginning its procession. Truth be told he was a little intimidated by Obi-Wan Kenobi still (though but a young man himself to his peers, to a boy of Anakin's age Obi-Wan was most definitely a man), but he had been grateful when the newly minted Jedi Knight had knelt beside him for a moment.

"It's because they've lost family or friends in the battle, Anakin. They mourn them, just as we mourn our own fallen."

His mind had flashed to his mother. He had felt guilty about that, since his mother was still alive; surely his mind should have gone to Qui-Gon Jinn, the Jedi Master who had plucked him from his slave life on Tatooine and had been killed only the day before. Anakin had loved him dearly and missed him terribly, and yet his mind had gone to his mother.

All of this must have played across his mind or shown in his face, even briefly, for Obi-Wan's hand squeezed his shoulder. "Come on, Anakin," he said, a little awkwardly perhaps but Anakin appreciated the effort. He even winked. "We're the heroes today, you and I. Who knows, maybe not for the last time."

"Yeah," Anakin had replied. It _did_ feel good to be cheered, he had to admit. It wasn't quite a match for the feeling when he'd won the Pod Race back home...but it was neat. And he'd liked it when that nice man had told him he would follow his careen with great interest, even though he wasn't quite sure what a careen was. He'd asked Obi-Wan, but the Jedi had only laughed, which had puzzled him even further.

He stood with the others in a line on the steps of the Palace while the crowds cheered, trying not to look too dumb alongside all of these important people, and resisting the urge to tug at his freshly cut Padawan braids for the thousandth time.

The Gungan chieftain, Boss Nass, was accepting a gift of a special boobah (was that what they called it? Anakin had trouble understanding Gungans sometimes) from Pad...from _Queen Amidala_, Anakin corrected himself. He felt his cheeks warm.

_Are you an angel? _he thought to himself, and groaned again at the memory. _Great line, Anakin_. _Why not ask her to tuck you into bed and read you a story and be done with it?_

He sighed. Girls had been thin on the ground in Tatooine, but he had never really minded that. Lately though...with Padme...

Boss Nass hefted the boobah aloft in his massive hands.

"Peace!" he cried out.

As a declaration, it turned out to be rather wide of the mark.

Lots of things happened very quickly. Anakin could only piece them together afterward, but he knew certain things had to have happened, and the way he figured it, what had to have happened was this:

A blaster bolt was fired from the crowd that shattered the oversized boobah, releasing the pent-up electrical energy stored inside. Every droid in the immediate vicinity erupted in a shower of sparks. Though non-fatal to humanoids, the electrical discharge nonetheless earthed itself painfully through everyone standing on the Palace steps, including Anakin himself. His teeth _clacked _together and his arms and legs jiggled a little, and he slumped to the stone steps.

The Jedi present - including Obi-Wan, Yoda, and Mace Windu - recovered almost instantly from the shockwave; in fact, the latter pair seemed to shrug off its effects without so much as an effort. The Gungans were not so fortunate. Boss Nass and Jar-Jar were out cold.

Meanwhile, on the square before them, the huge crowd were scattering in fear. Music stopped, acrobats collapsed and they and the coloured banners were trampled underfoot as what had been a mass of joyful celebrating citizens turned into a stampeding animal concerned only with putting distance between itself and the shooting.

Except for a small group of people, moving toward them.

As his arms and legs began to work again and he struggled to his feet, Anakin found himself thrust behind Obi-Wan, his new mentor stepping between his Padawan charge and the group of newcomers responsible for this attack.

There was the _snap-hiss _of one, two, three lightsaber blades sparking into life beside Anakin as the Jedi present armed themselves in preparation for another assault.

And Anakin, looking from behind Obi-Wan, felt his mouth drop open as his ears carried an impossibly familiar voice to him. His eyes zeroed in on the source of that voice.

"_Threepio_?"

Clad in an unfamiliar golden shell though he was, left behind in Tatooine half-completed though he was, absolutely impossible though it was, nonetheless there he stood. Well, _quivered _would have been more accurate; he was doing his best to hide as much of himself behind two humans and a huge furry alien Anakin hazarded a guess was a Wookiee.

"Chewbacca?" he heard Yoda say. What that meant he couldn't guess, but the Wookiee growled long and low, and he saw Yoda's stance change, and some of that battle readiness he had been exhibiting fade.

"Why did you attack us?!" Mace Windu demanded. His stance had not changed an inch.

One of the humans stepped forward. Anakin saw to his surprise that he was quite a young man, not much older than Obi-Wan. He carried himself much more confidently than Obi-Wan did. And he ignored Master Windu's question completely. His eyes were fixed instead on the figure of Chancellor Palpatine, who had not yet risen from the shock of the boobah's explosion.

Fresh sounds assaulted Anakin's ears. Republic guards, reacting to the attack, were converging on the square. Within moments the group facing them would be surrounded on all sides by heavy assault vehicles.

The young one pointed. When he spoke, it was with contempt he made no effort to conceal.

"Three of the greatest Jedi Masters the galaxy has ever produced," he said. "And you stand by his side, not knowing who he is? _What _he is?"

Palpatine stood.

"Who are you?" he asked. He sounded intensely curious. And it was odd, but Anakin could have sworn the way he normally spoke had changed a little.

"I am Jacen Solo. And _you_ are Darth Sidious. Sith Lord. Future Emperor of the Galactic Empire. Architect of the massacre of billions of innocents and the purging of the Jedi Order."

Anakin felt Obi-Wan's lightsaber-free hand tighten around his chest. Whether it was to stop him moving or whether it was simply an unconscious reaction to what his mentor was hearing, he didn't know.

Yoda and Mace Windu had turned to look at Palpatine. And this was odd, too; the boobah explosion had long since fully discharged, but as Anakin looked at the Chancellor, it seemed for all the worlds as if little sparks of a kind of blue electricity were actually _beginning _to course through him…

"Deny this charge, do you?" Yoda said.

"THIS IS THE THEED DEFENCE FORCE. SURRENDER YOUR WEAPONS OR WE WILL-"

_Click. _The commander of the arriving assault vehicles was somewhat taken aback when his communications system failed completely, but not as surprised as he would be in the next few seconds when he and the rest of his forces discovered that their vehicles' motivators and weapons had gone the same way.

"Oh _dear_ oh dear…" Anakin quite clearly heard Threepio wail. It was the only sound to be heard in a sudden hush of absolute quiet.

He saw the older man and the Wookiee advance on either side of this Jacen Solo, moving toward where the Jedi stood. Both had blasters drawn on Palpatine. He seemed not to have noticed their approach.

"Master Yoda. Master Windu. You can't tell me you _believe_ this ridiculous charge?" he asked. Anakin frowned. He'd said that the way Sebulba protested his innocence when accused of cheating during races.

Anakin wasn't alone in finding the denial less than convincing. Master Windu's purple blade swung around until t was pointed squarely at Palpatine. The middle-aged politician stared at it and at he who wielded it –

"So be it," he said softly.

- and with that, he _changed_.

All traces of frailty and age dropped away. His shoulders straightened. His relaxed posture vanished to be replaced with a sense that he was coiled to strike, as if he were a caged animal straining at a leash. Anakin watched, fascinated and terrified in equal measure as Palpatine bared his teeth at the Jedi facing him. When he spoke, his voice _was _different; not the even tones of the lifelong politician, but a rasping growl filled with hate and menace.

"Fools," he spat. "Trusting, blind fools."

"Why?" Mace asked him. "Why betray the Republic?"

"He planned this all along," Jacen said grimly. "He used the Naboo crisis to be elected as Chancellor. And from his new office, eventually he will shift more and more power to himself under the pretence of fighting a war he himself will create."

"Who _are_ you?" Palpatine asked him again.

Jacen smiled dazzlingly. "Me? I'm Jacen Solo. Time traveller. This is my father, Han, and his co-pilot Chewbacca."

"Hi," the older man – Han – said, and even waved to all assembled. He was close to where Obi-Wan and Anakin were standing now. Chewie growled.

"I'm the one who stops you, right here and now."

"Oh," and Palpatine's face fell in mock sadness, "I don't think so."

His hand shot out and closed around empty air, as if he were throttling an invisible assailant…and Anakin felt his lungs _constrict _inside his body, as though Palpatine's fingers had pierced his chest and were physically choking the oxygen from his system. Dimly, he realised that he was rising into the air.

"Let him go!" Obi-Wan cried out in anguish. "He's just a boy! You're killing him!"

Palpatine merely smiled wider and lifted his other hand. Padme Amidala, until this moment being restrained from going to Anakin's aid by the free hand of Mace Windu, abruptly felt the same incredible pain as her young friend rip through her own respiratory system.

"Make a move toward me and I snap their necks like tinder," he snarled. "Step away. Deactivate your lightsabers. _Now_."

Yoda and Mace Windu took a long look at each other, judging distances, times, odds. Jacen could see Mace's muscles tense as if readying to make a leap.

"No!" he said. "Everyone, do as he says. Please."

Reluctantly, the lightsaber blades _swoooshed _back to nothingness. Both Yoda and Mace stepped backward, allowing Palpatine more space. Suspended in mid-air now, Obi-Wan could only watch in horror as Anakin's pallor paled further. The boy's lips were turning blue, his arms and legs kicking helplessly, his eyes rolling whites. Amidala was similarly affected. Another few moments and both would be beyond saving.

Only Jacen's blade remained activated.

"Throw your saber to me," Palpatine commanded him. In his civilian politician's clothes, he had never imagined he would require the weapon; without it, he was defenceless, and he knew it.

"Take it."

And he threw the saber end-over-end, aiming straight at Palpatine.

It was a fruitless gesture of defiance. Any Force adept would easily be able to stop the blade in mid-air and pluck the lightsaber from its suspended position. Once his, he would use his young hostages to his full advantage; it should, he reflected, even be possible to bury this entire incident upon their deaths. Blame it on the Jedi. Start the great Purge early...

Even as this thought occurred and he raised a careless hand to arrest the flight of the lightsaber, something slid to a halt at his feet. It looked like a military-standard issue backpack. The Wookiee must have thrown it at the same moment the lightsaber left Jacen's hand. As Palpatine registered its presence, he saw it cease to emit a soft blue glow from within.

Anakin and Padme dropped to the ground, gasping for air.

Jacen Solo's lightsaber entered his chest clean and true, exiting through his back and leaving a hole the size of a man's fist through him, a gaping maw directly where his heart had been.

He had time for one gasp, and to see the expression on Jacen Solo's face. And to know that the Sith would prevail, in one form or in another.

Chancellor Palpatine, once Senator, would-be future Emperor of the Galactic Empire, was dead before he hit the ground.

---------------------------------------------------------

It was a little time before Anakin began to process things normally again. His lungs flamed with each breath he took. He saw them take Palpatine's body away with the backpack close by it at all times, for reasons he didn't quite understand; but it was strange, because when the pack moved away, Anakin started feeling better almost immediately.

When some semblance of order had been returned to the centre of Theed, Anakin found himself in a small meeting hall inside the Palace. Padme was close by. He was glad of that. She had been so concerned over how he was recovering, to the point where he'd almost had to remind her that she herself had suffered a similar ordeal. The way she smiled at him…when she did that, for a few seconds he would stop thinking of his mother all alone on Tatooine, and the wonder of it was he didn't even feel guilty for doing so.

A lot of raised voices alerted him to the fact that an argument was going on around him. It looked as though the new Jedi - Jacen? - was on one side, and Masters Yoda and Windu were on the other. Yoda wasn't raising his voice, of course; but Mace Windu was coming pretty close to doing so. Obi-Wan wasn't speaking, but he was standing close to the two Jedi Masters, and from his face Anakin could tell he was on their side.

"Hey kid," a gruff voice said to his right.

"Hey," Anakin replied.

"I'm Han."

"You're Jacen's Dad?"

Han paused for a second before replying, which Anakin thought was kinda odd. Surely you either were someone's Dad or you weren't, right?

"Long story," he finally settled for. "You're...uh, you're Anakin Skywalker huh?"

He was looking at Anakin like Anakin was a power coupling about to overload. Anakin felt defensive and embarrassed at the same time. "Yeah. How did you know?"

Han smiled a crooked smile. "Another long story."

"You sure have a lot of long stories," Anakin observed.

Han laughed. Anakin decided he liked Han's laugh. "Tell me about it, kid."

"Anakin will decide his own fate. Not you!"

Anakin realised when the talking stopped and the last words penetrated that he was the topic of discussion. A suspicion formed within him that he may have been the topic all along.

He took a step back as the eyes of everyone in the room fell upon him, not seeing Han's expression of sympathy. "Let me decide what?" he asked, a little nervously.

Jacen approached him, knelt down. He was smiling too, and Anakin could see he _was _Han's son; the smile was identical.

But his eyes-

"Anakin," he said gently. "Believe it or not, we're family, you and I."

"We are?"

Anakin could see the consternation of the Jedi Masters behind Jacen. Mace Windu had a face like thunder. Yoda looked ruffled from his usual serenity. And Obi-Wan...he was confused, and scared. Anakin felt a chill. He had never seen Obi-Wan scared before.

"Yes," Jacen nodded. "We are. And families stick together, Anakin," he took a deep breath. "So I'm going to Tatooine. I'm going there to free your mother."

"You _cannot_ do that!" Mace Windu exclaimed. "It is against everything-"

"I don't _care_ what rules it violates!" Jacen shouted right back, unrepentant, even as Anakin's head swam with what he had just heard. His mother? Free? With him? It was everything he wanted. He felt the tears come, could not stop them.

"You took a small boy, a _child_, from his home, from everything he knows, from the only family he ever had, because you think you can use him in some blasted _prophecy_?! The Jedi Order has the power, money, connections to free a slave in a backwater planet in a heartbeat - to reunite a homesick boy with his mother, to take that mother from a life of servitude and disease - and you stood by and you did _nothing_, you heartless bastards, did nothing until it was too late - and then you _dared_ to condemn him for what he became?"

"You're talking about things that haven't happened yet!" Mace Windu countered. "It's insane!"

"It's destiny!" Jacen roared back. "That concept that the Force is so fond of throwing around, and you're so fond of talking about! Do you want to know _your _destiny, Master Windu? To be blasted out a window, dashed to pieces above the skies of Coruscant, minutes before the greatest massacre of Jedi in history! If _that_ is destiny, if that is the will of the Force...then I will take _great_ pleasure in breaking every rule in the Jedi Code!"

Silence echoed through the meeting hall. Jacen was breathing heavily, so loud and so forceful had his rebuttal been. With a final look of disgust, he turned from the Jedi Masters and back to Anakin.

"Will you come with me, Anakin?" he asked the boy, extending his hand. "We will free Shmi, you and I. And I will teach you how to wield your powers better than anyone else ever could. I promise you that."

"Anakin, please..."

It was Obi-Wan. He crossed the floor to Anakin, ignoring Jacen's hostile glare as he did so, and extended his own hand to the boy. "Anakin...don't go. Saving your mother would be using the Force for your own personal gain. Do that, and you risk becoming a slave to your emotions. Turning from inner peace leads to the Dark Side. That isn't the Jedi way."

Anakin stared at the two hands outstretched to him, one Jacen's, one Obi-Wan's. For a few long seconds his mind boiled with turmoil, and then his decision was made.

"You're right," he told Obi-Wan. He saw Obi-Wan smile, Mace Windu relax.

And then he took Jacen's hand.

"Maybe I don't want to be a Jedi," he said.

He said goodbye to Padme. She hugged him and told him to promise her that he would visit, which he did. He couldn't bring himself to say goodbye to Yoda or Obi-Wan. He felt Master Windu's gaze on him as he left that room, with Jacen's hand on his shoulder.

"We'll be back for Padme, Ani," Jacen whispered to him. "You just wait and see. Let's go get Threepio, huh? He's onboard our ship, waiting for us. And you."

"Do you have a fast ship?" Anakin asked, if only to stop thinking about the expression on Obi-Wan's face.

"Do we have a fast ship!" Jacen exclaimed. He winked conspiratorially at Han. "Mind if I run ahead with Anakin and show him the most beautiful hunk of junk ever made, Dad?"

Han didn't mind.

He and Chewie watched as Jacen and Anakin sprinted away, full of the energy of purpose. Han looked over at his oldest friend, his expression unreadable. Chewie growled.

"I hear ya, pal," Han said. He kept on watching until Jacen vanished into the distance.

"I have a bad feeling about this."

**THE END**

_Author's Brief Note:_

_Yes, this is the end. Finito. Fin. Cue John Williams music. _

_It might be a bit of a cliché but I can only hope you enjoyed reading 'Galaxies Apart' half as much as I enjoyed writing it. It's the biggest story I've ever written and it changed so much from its original 10-year-old draft that it taught me an awful lot about the difficult art of storytelling._

_Many, many thanks to everyone who took the time out of their busy day and their chaotic lives to type a review, however big or small, however detailed or otherwise. It means such a lot, as the authors amongst you will know, to see that little email popping up that says 'FF Review Alert'. _

_Now that the story is complete, please feel free to wax lyrical on your overall impression. Authors love reviews like cats love catnip._

_I'm off to have a drink. Who's with me?_

_Laurence (Larbo)_


	52. And Now A Word From Our Author

Hi all!

Sorry as this isn't a long-delayed (!) new chapter or even an announcement of a sequel to Galaxies Apart, which by the way I'm still incredibly pleased to this day at the amount of support and re-reading it seems to get; looking at the stats and despite the fact I've written newer and longer stuff since then, it's still far and away my most-read story.

I've spent the last year or so writing a trilogy of urban fantasy novels and the first one was released on Thursday 10th May. It's called "Folk'd" (pun intended), and it's available on Amazon Kindle and Apple iBooks. If you search for Folk'd or Laurence Donaghy on Amazon or iBooks it should come up (I can't post links through this or will get very angry with me, whimper).

Anyway, the synopsis for Folk'd goes like this:

Meet Danny Morrigan. Callcentre worker. Young father. Danny's not entirely happy with his life. He finds himself tortured by the "what ifs", and by one in particular – what if his casual girlfriend hadn't told him she was pregnant before he finished his university degree? What if, out of some sense of decency and not wanting to be like his own father, he hadn't "done the right thing" and dropped out to support her and the baby?

When Danny comes home from work after a particularly bad day to find his girlfriend and baby son have vanished, Marie Celeste like, into thin air, it begins a series of events that quickly moves beyond a simple missing persons case. Danny begins to uncover the Morrigan family's real purpose in this world, a world of lurking danger and concealed horror, where the line between mythology and reality blur. Before he knows it he's living another life where (seemingly) he has everything he ever wanted…a good job, no responsibilities…but what is the cause of this change? Where have his family gone? Why doesn't anyone remember his old life?

And most importantly, does he want it back?

Folk'd interweaves a very modern tale of unexpected parenthood and responsibility set in contemporary Belfast with ancient Irish mythology and the supernatural. In Folk'd and its sequels, Folk'd Up Beyond All Recognition and Completely Folk'd, we are taken on a humorous, sometimes horrifying, always enthralling journey from modern-day Belfast to prehistory as the full and tragic tale of the Morrigan family is told.

So I just thought you might want to check it out - it's only £2.99 but I promise there are laughs and scares aplenty, plus mention Galaxies Apart in any reviews you might care to leave and you get a free frogurt!*

*as long as you live in Belfast, Northern Ireland and are within walking distance of a frogurt shop. Terms and conditions apply.

Thanks and MTFBWY!


End file.
